Down to Sleep
by VR Trakowski
Summary: Another serial killer strikes Las Vegas--but this one has a twist. GSR COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. All others belong to me, and if you want to borrow them, you have to ask me first. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**Spoilers: through "Lying Down With Dogs" **

**Note: this story includes the non-graphic deaths of children.**

**This is the result of my last NaNoWriMo, and will be fairly dark. It's very slightly AU so far; I gave Bruno to the neighbors because I think it's just silly for a couple of massive workaholics who work long hours to own a dog in the first place. Plus it's heavy on the casefile, so please be patient with me. (grin) **

**I owe much to Stokely, LosingInTranslation, Alour01, and Coldtoes for canon research, and of course Cincoflex for her invaluable encouragement last November and ever since! And her enthusiasm for the idea in the first place... **

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It was good to be back. Even if it meant doing paperwork again.

Sara filled out another line on the form in front of her, barely even having to think about the information. The robbery had been as routine as such things ever got, and the mindless cataloging of evidence was soothing in a dull way.

She'd learned to appreciate the value of dullness, at least in small measure.

Sara sat back for a moment, tapping her pen idly on the paper as memory surfaced. After her escape from the pressure cooker that her job had become, she'd thought she would never want to return to it; but after two months spent far away from both Vegas and California, finally laying shades to rest, Sara had found herself missing the challenge of investigation.

Though it had been a far second to missing Grissom.

Fortunately, she'd managed to arrange for emergency leave, so her job had been open when she'd decided to return, and stress management and the choice to pass on particular cases had helped her maintain her equilibrium.

Not to mention the support of a certain senior CSI--

"So when's the big day?"

Sara looked up to the sight of Greg leaning in the doorway, grinning at her. She pursed her lips. "You're in early."

He took that as an invitation and stepped into the room, still smiling. "I have something I want to finish up before assignments. So? Tell the Greg-man!"

She glanced down. Encircling her neck was a slender chain; strung on the chain was a ring, a round faceted diamond set in white and rose gold. It was small and light and a little worn, very Victorian. "We haven't set a date yet."

Greg rolled his eyes and held out his hand. "Lemme see." Sara sighed and ducked out of the chain, knowing that he'd give her no peace until his curiosity was satisfied.

He took the whole thing and bent his head to examine it. Sara wore the ring on her finger at home, but at work she relied on the chain, given the hazards of the job and the way stones could chew through latex gloves.

Greg made a disgusted noise. "I thought he was getting paid the big bucks. I mean, it's pretty and all, but--"

Sara snatched the ring back, amused and annoyed. "It's a family heirloom, Greg, not a trophy."

In fact, it had belonged to Grissom's grandmother. He had offered to let Sara choose something newer, but there had never really been a question in her mind. The mere fact that Grissom wanted her to wear it was sufficient...and besides, it was lovely.

Greg nodded, conceding. "I gotta admit, flashy's not your style, you're more of a unique woman, if you get my drift." He grinned again, and Sara returned it, warmed by his exaggerated teasing. She had chosen to move to Swing for good reasons, and she didn't regret the decision, but she still missed her friends. "But weddings usually come after engagements, you know."

Sara dropped the chain back over her head and shoved him lightly. "Shut up, Greg, or I won't ask you to be my bridesmaid."

Greg snorted with laughter, slapping a hand across his chest. "Anything but that! Okay, okay, but I'm first on the invite list, got that?"

"Absolutely," she said dryly, and Greg swung out of the room still chuckling. Sara watched him go, pleased to see some of his wacky humor returning after too long a period of seriousness. Things had changed, yeah...but not everything.

Resisting the urge to check for observers, Sara looked down at the ring, almost embarrassed to be seen admiring it. She had railed so long and so hard against the meaningless trappings of weddings, the expectations, the endless traditions; and for so long she had been scared to death of the idea of promising her life to someone, of giving up her hard-won independence.

She remembered endless discussions in college, about whether marriage was outdated and misogynistic, and how so much of it symbolized female submission. Most of that had been just the usual undergraduate half-baked philosophy, students trying out ideas with all the fervor of youth and ignorance. Engagement rings had been one of the things her own circle of feminists had snubbed--after all, they were just remnants of male claiming and ownership, and excessively consumerist, and so forth...

But none of the arguments, Sara thought now, had taken into account the weight of emotion behind the tradition. Sure, some of their points still held; for instance, it was silly that only the woman should wear a symbol of engagement. But the look in Grissom's eyes when he opened the box, the shy eagerness--the _love_--

She wore it because it was a symbol of that love, not because she was anyone's possession.

_Besides--_ Sara rubbed the diamond with the tip of one finger, feeling its glassy smoothness bounded by the bumps of the setting. _It's...history._

She couldn't really articulate the feeling, not even to herself, but somehow the weight of time and family behind the ring was comforting. Grissom's grandmother had worn it all her life, he'd said; it gave her a sense of continuity, of the solid past that had been so lacking in her own life.

There had been no heirlooms in the Sidle family, even before it fell apart entirely. Nothing handed down, wreathed with stories; nothing to value for its age and memories.

Smiling, Sara went back to her paperwork. No, they hadn't set a date yet; both of them were still too dazed by the fact that they had taken the step of engagement.

There was time.

* * *

The small form was curled up on its side, as though asleep, but the smell told them differently, and Sara's frown was tight. 

"Bum found him," Det. Vartann said, tilting his head at the elderly lady who huddled next to her shopping cart filled with grubby packages--almost the epitome of "bag lady". One of the officers was questioning her patiently, but she appeared to be more than half deaf. "George'll be taking her downtown, but frankly she couldn't lift a cat. Not a suspect."

Sara privately agreed with him, but procedure was procedure, and any good CSI--or cop--knew that appearances could deceive. She waited, but apparently he had nothing more to say.

As primary, she had disposition of personnel, so she waved Ronnie Lake forward. "Get a double set," she instructed the rookie, who was manning the big camera for Swing that night. "This one's priority."

Ronnie nodded solemnly, and the flashes began, each one briefly shocking the grimy alley. The last gleam of sunset was fading from the sky, and the shadows had long since gathered in the narrow, garbage-piled space.

Sara knelt down, carefully avoiding the edge of the plastic bag spread beneath the corpse, and made a closer examination. The pose was natural, as though the toddler had just fallen asleep, and she could see no immediate cause of death. The child's hand was folded around some piece of jewelry, silver links and beads, and Sara directed Ronnie to get some close-up shots of it. Ronnie went to one knee, heedless of the garbage, and snapped away.

A rattle of wheels alerted Sara to the arrival of the coroner, and she stood, nodding as Swing's answer to David Phillips halted in front of the body. Sam Oguntayo had a wrestler's build and a phlegmatic demeanor--reassuring in a coroner, in Sara's private opinion.

Though she did miss David's shy smiles.

Oguntayo grunted at the sight of the dead child, which for him was a strong reaction, and crouched down to carefully turn the slight form. "Lividity's fixed, rigor is passed," he said shortly. "No obvious trauma."

"Dumped?" Sara asked; she tended to adopt his verbal shorthand.

He shrugged, adding another grunt which she now knew meant _We'll know more at the post,_ and let one hand hover over the little closed fist, raising his brows at Sara. She nodded, and he used one gloved thumb to open the fingers. It didn't take much effort.

Oguntayo hooked his finger through the chain and lifted it, handing it to Sara. She held it up so Ronnie could get a close-up, then turned her handlight on it. _Huh._

Three years ago, she wouldn't have recognized it, not on first glance; but she'd learned a lot since then. The cross on the end was a giveaway, of course, but the rosary was child-sized, small and delicate, with crystal beads. The object joining the loop was a medal of some sort, but in the poor light Sara couldn't make out the details.

She dropped it into an evidence bag and sealed it while Oguntayo completed his examination. "I.D.?" she asked.

He shook his head. Neither of them had really expected any on a child so small, but there was always hope that the little boy's shirt had a name label sewn in the back or some such.

"Too young for prints, probably," Ronnie noted sadly.

"Yeah," Sara sighed. "Not much chance that his DNA's in the system, either."

Ronnie put the lens cap back on the camera. "Look at how he's dressed, though. Somebody has to be missing this kid."

It was true that the toddler's straight black hair was clean and even combed, his clothes inexpensive but well-made and tidy; he was as clean as could be reasonably expected for someone still apt to taste random objects. But Sara didn't bother to point out all the reasons even a well-cared-for child could easily end up dead in a back alley.

She had the nasty feeling that too many of them were going to come up in this case anyway.

Oguntayo had unfolded a small body bag, and now lifted the little body and laid it gently inside. Sara put out a hand, not to stop him but to draw his attention. "Run a SAE kit on this one, will you?" she asked softly.

The coroner nodded, his face settling into harsher lines, and zipped up the bag.

* * *

Swing's senior coroner was a transplant, like at least two-thirds of the lab's personnel. Dr. Nat, as she was known, had chosen that shift because, she claimed, she had done years of night shift at her old job and was thoroughly sick of it. Sara had to wonder why she hadn't just gone to Days instead--anyone with her credentials could pretty much pick her shift--but didn't ask. She rather liked the curly-haired pathologist, whose frank manner and sly sense of humor made visits to the morgue as enjoyable as dropping in on Doc Robbins and his superior coffee. Nat's button nose and wide-set eyes kept her from beauty, but her force of personality and apparently unending energy made her attractive all the same. 

She bore no trace of humor, though, when Sara walked in to inquire after her corpse.

"Probably no more than two years old," Nat said sadly as they looked down at the boy. "Twenty-eight months at the most. No distinguishing marks, though he's probably of Chinese descent."

Sara asked the most pressing question. "Cause of death?"

Nat lifted the boy's eyelid gently, then pointed to the faint trace of blue-grey on the philtrum. "Petecchial hemorrhaging and perimortem bruising. I'm calling it asphyxia unless I find something better when I open him up."

"Smothered." Sara rubbed her forehead with the back of her wrist; her head wasn't aching, precisely, but the sorrow and rage that came with these cases always laid a black weight on her, as though her skull were made of iron instead of bone.

"Looks like it," Nat agreed darkly. "I've sent blood to Tox. Now, wanna hear the cold comfort?"

Sara almost smiled despite the circumstances. "Sure."

The coroner actually ticked her points off on her fingers. "No signs of sexual trauma; in fact, no signs of abuse of any kind. He's well-fed, healthy, even his baby teeth came in straight. And there's no bruising aside from his mouth, no indications of struggle at all, which makes me very interested in the results of the tox screen."

"Hmm." Sara frowned, looking down at the toddler. The knowledge that he might have been unconscious when he was killed was, indeed, not much comfort, but it was interesting forensically. "Any fibers?"

Nat shot her a look that told her she should know better than to ask. "Did I mention any?"

This time Sara did smile, just a little. "Sorry. Okay. Anything I can plug into the missing persons database?"

Nat snagged a report form from the counter and handed it to her. "Not a lot, but good luck with it."

Sara thanked her and left.

* * *

"Are we going to be here all night?" Ronnie asked, watching over Sara's shoulder as she called up the database. The rookie CSI's overeager enthusiasm had died down somewhat over the last few months, but if she got interested enough she was willing to extend her shift. 

"Probably not. Think about it," Sara prodded gently as her fingers flew over the keyboard. Julia Reyes, the Swing shift supervisor, had been delighted to get Sara's skills and dedication on her team, and tended to pair her with Ronnie for the experience. Fortunately, the younger CSI seemed pleased with the informal mentoring, and liked to pick Sara's brain when a case baffled her. Sara, in her turn, found Ronnie more tolerable now that she had stopped playing Twenty Questions with each case.

Ronnie was silent for a few minutes, and Sara played around with the display, not wanting to give her any hints. Then she heard the younger woman shift behind her. "Oh. Amber Alert?"

Sara smirked at her reflection in the monitor, and clicked on the correct link. "Very good. Now tell me why."

"Because a child that well cared for was most likely reported missing--and he's been dead long enough for someone to actually have missed him."

"Yep." Sara began scrolling down the page; a heartbreaking number of children were reported missing every day, though there was a small relief in knowing that many of the children were recovered quickly, and a good handful of the rest were errors of some kind--crossed wires or missed connections resulting in kids who were merely temporarily misplaced, as it were, rather than actually lost or taken.

"How about that one?" Ronnie shifted to Sara's side and pointed at the screen, and Sara clicked on the picture of the beaming toddler.

The link opened to more data on the missing boy, and Sara checked it against Nat's report. "Nope, he's an inch too tall to be ours."

But the second look-alike fit the particulars. Roger Hsien, twenty-four months old almost exactly, 36 inches tall, 28 pounds in weight. Reported missing two days previous in Yakima, Washington.

"He's a long way from home," Ronnie said softly.

Sara felt the weight in her head doubling. "Sounds like an abduction gone bad--somebody wanted him for sex, and something went wrong."

"I thought you said he wasn't abused," Ronnie protested.

"If he was merchandise, he might not be hurt until he was turned over to a buyer." Sara reached for the phone next to the computer. "I'll get in touch with Yakima PD, see if we can match him exactly."

Ronnie hung around as Sara made the call, a quiet presence at the back of the room. It was not a long conversation, but it was never easy, even when it was a detective on the other end rather than the victim's family.

Sara exhaled as she hung up the phone, conscious of how tired she was. Cases like these were brutally draining.

Ronnie came back to lean against the table, and Sara propped her elbows on the edge and folded her hands together. "His parents should be here by tomorrow morning."

"I'll call Vartann." Ronnie suited actions to words, letting the detective know that their victim had a tentative I.D., to be confirmed by the parents when they arrived.

Sara hadn't moved by the time she was through, and Ronnie looked down at her. "What's the next move, Sara?"

Sara let her hands clench into fists. "Now we catch the son of a bitch."

Ronnie made a skeptical noise. "I don't want to be a pill…but with what? We don't have _anything_--no hairs or fibers or DNA, no prints at the scene, no weapon..."

"We have a plastic bag to check for prints," Sara pointed out sharply. "There's a tox screen pending, and there's whatever evidence the Yakima lab collected. The detective I talked to said it was a Dayshift case, and that he'd have them send it as soon as they come in in the morning."

Ronnie raised her hands in surrender. "Okay, okay," she said good-humoredly, not pointing out the odds of so careful a perp leaving prints on the bag, or the likelihood that Yakima had just as little. Sara took a breath, and made herself smile. Ronnie was a good kid; Sara was grateful that Dr. Reyes had trusted her with the role of mentor for the new girl.

"Sorry. Look, how soon until the end of shift?"

Ronnie glanced at her watch. "About thirty minutes ago."

Sara snorted. "Go home."

She didn't argue. "Should I come in tomorrow when the parents get here?"

"You can if you want. I'll be here." Sara cocked a brow at Ronnie. "But clear it with Julia before you put it on your time card."

"Right." Ronnie threw her a salute and left.

Sara sighed again, and stretched, taking her time about it. There was plenty left to do, but before she began she had an errand to run.

She ran her quarry to ground just outside of Trace One, meandering down the hall with a cup of coffee in one hand and three folders in the other. Grissom's face brightened when he saw her, and Sara fell into step with him, as she had been doing for years now.

Grissom shoved the folders under his arm and let his newly freed hand find the small of her back, all the PDA they would allow themselves at the lab. She savored the familiar touch, resisting the urge to inch closer. "Good evening, dear," he said, his voice amused. "Overtime again?"

"Just a little. How're you? Did you get enough sleep?"

Grissom guided her into his office, leaving the door open since he was on shift. "I'm fine. It was a pleasant drive."

Sara leaned against his desk, pulling up one knee as he rounded it and dropped the files on an uneven pile of papers. "You were asleep so fast this morning that I never got a chance to ask you about Seattle."

Grissom sat down, leaning back and taking a sip of coffee. "The lecture went well; a bit boring, actually. No...imaginative questions." He winked at her, and Sara snickered.

"How many phone numbers this time?"

He rolled his eyes, and fished in his pocket, tossing two business cards and a paper napkin onto his desk. "Just three."

Sara laughed and picked them up. All three of the names were female, and the number on the napkin was underlined twice. "Face it, Gilbert, you're hot stuff."

Reaching out, Grissom plucked them away from her and dropped them in his trash can. "It was an informative weekend, but it rained the whole time." His hand came to rest on her knee, out of sight of the windows--a subtle, warming touch. "I missed you."

Sara covered his hand with her own. "I missed you too. I was almost tempted to borrow Bruno from the neighbor again, just to have a warm body in the bed."

Grissom chuckled at her tease. "Why didn't you?"

"Because when I went over to ask if I could dogsit, he'd just finished rolling in a dead jackrabbit. I can take the smell; it's the enthusiasm that puts me off." She grinned as Grissom laughed out loud, then gave his fingers a quick squeeze and slid off the desk. "Gotta go, and I'm sure you have work too."

"Monthly orders," Grissom replied, scrunching up his face into exaggerated distaste. "Don't stay too late."

"Yeah, yeah." Sara gave him a wave as she made for the door, deliberately not telling him that she intended to be present when the Hsiens arrived.

She could always sleep later.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. All others belong to me, and if you want to borrow them, you have to ask me first. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**Spoilers: through "Lying Down With Dogs" **

**Note: this story includes the non-graphic deaths of children.**

**Many thanks to Jean for information about rosaries! You made my plot possible. **

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They'd chosen different ringtones for their cellphones when they'd started making a habit of sleeping together, just to make sure that no one answered the wrong phone while three-quarters asleep. This had an additional advantage in that they'd learned to sleep through each other's rings. So Grissom didn't stir when her phone chimed and she rolled over to answer it.

Vartann's voice in her ear informed her briskly that the Hsiens were being picked up at McCarran International. "Thanks," she said quietly, and shut the phone.

The sound hadn't woken him, but when she slid out of bed and didn't return, Grissom opened one eye to peer blearily at her. "Mmph?"

"Work," Sara said, buttoning her slacks and fumbling with one foot for her shoe. "Go back to sleep."

He watched her for a moment longer, but when she gave no more details he closed the eye. The "hrmf" sound that followed was in their personal code, developed over time--an acknowledgment, and an expression of concern that she get enough rest. For some reason, this time it made Sara's eyes prickle a little; perhaps because she had missed him while he'd been in Washington. Smiling, she bent over and kissed his cheek, earning a happy sigh, then headed for the front door.

The Hsiens were as well-dressed as their son, giving every indication of a pair of successful professionals, but what struck Sara the moment she saw them was that they were standing apart. Not noticeably, physically, but there was absolutely no feeling of connection between them at all. In fact--

"Is it just me, or is it snowing between them?" Ronnie murmured beside her, and Sara grunted, watching as Vartann explained the viewing procedure.

"It's not just you. That's weird."

Ronnie cocked her head. "Doesn't this sort of thing usually bring people together? At least at first?"

"Sometimes. Everybody reacts differently, though."

The two of them waited discreetly in the background, watching through the windows in the morgue doors as Vartann escorted the Hsiens in and Dr. Nat pulled out the drawer. The coroner folded back the sheet with exquisite care, exposing only the little boy's head, and waited.

That peculiar moment of realization hung breathlessly in the air, waiting to tip towards agony or relief; then Mrs. Hsien covered her face with her hands, and Mr. Hsien let out a breath as though someone had punched him. A second later, his wife began wailing, a low and hopeless sound.

And neither of them made the slightest move towards one another.

Sara unfolded her arms. "Positive I.D.," she said sadly, and jerked her head back towards the lab. "C'mon. Vartann'll bring them to one of the conference rooms when they're ready. We can look at the report from Yakima while we're waiting."

Ronnie stuck her hands in her jacket pockets as they walked. "D'you think they did it?"

"Killed him? No. Yakima PD would have given us a heads-up if either of them were a strong suspect. But responsible for his death in some way...that's still a possibility."

"You think they sold him?" Ronnie looked revolted.

Sara shrugged. "Not necessarily--he could have died accidentally, and they tried to cover it up. But it's far more likely that he just got snatched." She pushed open the door to the small office shared by the Swing people. "Let's see what Yakima has to say."

The report didn't have a lot of evidence attached, but it did lend weight to the assumption that the Hsiens were innocent of their son's disappearance. He had been at playgroup the afternoon he vanished, playing outside in the fenced yard with a dozen other small children under the eyes of two supervisors, and both of his parents had been at work.

"Someone cut open the fence?" Ronnie shook her head in disbelief as she scanned her copy of the report. "How can you protect against that?"

Sara grimaced. "You can't, really. This was premeditated, had to be. Someone cut the fence ahead of time and waited. All it took was the caregivers getting distracted for a minute, and with that many kids they're probably distracted a lot."

Ronnie sighed. "So no trace at the scene. Shouldn't there have been_ something?_ I mean, Locard's--"

"They might have missed it, but more likely we're dealing with someone very careful," Sara said, appreciating her frustration. "Besides, there _was_ trace; it's just not useful to us yet."

Ronnie blinked, and looked back down at the printout as though it were hiding something from her. Sara leaned forward, pointing at the relevant section. "Tool marks on the fence where it was cut. Those can be matched to a cutter, if we find one."

Ronnie nodded. "Right. First we need a suspect, though."

Sara's phone beeped, and she picked it up to find a text message from Vartann. "The parents are ready."

* * *

The Hsiens were still...apart. Sara had Ronnie stand near the door to observe, not wanting to overwhelm the couple with inquisitors, and then sat opposite them with Vartann. Mrs. Hsien looked wrecked, her eyes swollen and her makeup smeared, and she still sobbed from time to time, clutching an actual lace-edged handkerchief and using it to dab at her face. 

Mr. Hsien, on the other hand, was belligerent. "We've already answered these questions a dozen times," he said loudly, though his eyes were damp at the corners. "We told the police everything we knew, and they still couldn't find Roger! And now he's dead, and you're still asking--"

"I know, Mr. Hsien, and I'm sorry," Vartann interrupted, pitching his voice low and soothing. "Believe me, we in Las Vegas regret Roger's death deeply. But if we're going to find his killer, we need your help."

"Mr. Hsien, Mrs. Hsien," Sara said, taking up the thread, "did you receive any contact at all from anyone claiming to have taken Roger?"

"You mean a ransom demand? No," the father answered angrily.

"Did you see anyone hanging around your home or his playgroup? Anyone out of place or who made you uneasy?"

"No." Mrs. Hsien blotted her eyes with the handkerchief. "The neighborhood's full of people, always coming and going. There was no one."

The rest of the questions were equally fruitless; Sara suspected that she and Vartann were getting even less information than the Yakima investigators had. The Hsiens seemed to ignore each other, answering questions with resentment or dull misery, but the answers were about what Sara expected from innocent people.

Finally Mr. Hsien asked one in turn. "When can we take Roger home?"

Vartann's mouth tightened; this was a question that was always hard to answer. "The coroner hasn't released the body yet," he said gently. "As soon as she does, we'll let you know."

He answered the usual protests, then turned them over to the officer assigned to take them to their hotel. Sighing, he slumped back in his chair, rubbing at his face with one hand.

Ronnie came and sat in Mr. Hsien's chair as Sara leaned back in her own. "That was weird," the rookie noted.

Vartann grimaced in agreement. "According to the Yakima guys, they're gearing up for a really nasty divorce. Roger was about be in the middle of a huge custody fight."

Sara felt her brows go up. "Custody snatch gone bad?"

He shook his head. "No--they both went to pick him up to avoid just that. And either way, why bring the kid all the way to Vegas?"

"Good question." Sara thought about it. "We need to find out how exactly Roger died."

"Yeah. You got anything for me?"

"The tox screen should be back today. Unfortunately, the bag had no fingerprints." Sara propped her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand. "Either this is a pro, or we're dealing with someone who's really, really lucky."

"The way luck runs in this town," Vartann said sourly, "it'll probably be on his side. Call me if something comes up, I'm gonna go home and try to catch a little more sleep."

He left, waving absently as he went, and Sara sighed, rubbing her temples in a futile effort to lessen the weight of her skull. Ronnie tapped her fingers on the table. "Want me to go find that tox report?"

Sara looked up. Ronnie's eyes were shadowed but not sleepy, and Sara let the corner of her mouth turn up. "Go for it."

Ronnie left, all youthful energy in a suit jacket a touch too long for her, and Sara frowned, staring into space. There was something off, something not quite right about this case...something that didn't fit...

_A really nasty divorce._

Sara stood up in one fluid movement and strode out the door, straight for the evidence locker.

"Says here that Roger's system was full of diphenhydramine," Ronnie said ten minutes later, her hands full of paper. "You know, you could have paged me."

Sara didn't look up from her examination of the child's rosary they'd found in the victim's grasp. It had already been dusted for prints and nothing had turned up but Roger's own, but Sara was making a second and far more thorough pass. "That would explain the lack of a struggle. Do me a favor, call Yakima PD and find out if the Hsiens are Catholic."

Ronnie's brows went up, but by now she was used to Sara's thought patterns, and she shuffled the report into its folder and set it down before fishing out her phone. Sara continued her examination of the rosary under her microscope, looking for any trace at all among the tiny links.

A few minutes later Ronnie closed the phone. "They're Methodist, apparently. Does that help?"

Sara did look up at that, but Ronnie's face was innocent. _I guess it's not something everyone knows any more._ "Catholics aren't supposed to get divorced," she explained. "Not that that stops some couples."

Ronnie brightened. "So the rosary came from the killer."

"Most likely, yeah." Sara peered at a minute scratch in the silver.

"You think we've got a serial?" She sounded _eager,_ and Sara held back a sigh. Even Greg hadn't been that enthusiastic.

"Serial killers are actually a lot rarer than people think," Sara said, straightening again. "Most likely, the rosary is a symbol of remorse, or an attempt to safeguard the victim's soul. Remember, this may not have been a deliberate murder. For all we know, Roger was drugged to make him easier to handle, and he just rolled over and smothered in his sleep. The killer might have panicked and dumped him."

"Would that leave bruising, though?" Ronnie asked, cocking her head.

"It's not likely," Sara admitted, holding out a hand for the tox report. "But remember, there's not a lot of bruising. At this point, we just can't tell."

The report told her nothing else important; aside from the antihistamine, Roger's blood had been clean.

As clean as the rosary.

* * *

In the end, there was nothing to do but go home. She'd sent Ronnie home sooner, and gone over the scanty evidence again, but not even Roger's clothes bore anything useful--just a couple of threads that were dead ends without something to which to match them. 

In times past, Sara might have stayed and gone through everything yet again, but she was tired--and she had, in her own way, promised Grissom that she would at least try to get enough rest. So she e-mailed Vartann about the tox screen, packed up the evidence, and left.

Grissom was up when she got home, making waffles with easy skill, and Sara felt her heart lift at the sight of his sturdy figure in a worn flannel robe, hair rumpled and clever hands pouring batter. She tossed down her keys and went to claim a kiss.

Grissom set aside the bowl and made it a good one, wrapping her up in his hug and tasting her mouth with a thoroughness that, for a few seconds, made her forget about dead children.

"I missed you," he said as he released her to rescue the latest waffle from burning.

"I missed you too. How did you know when I'd be here?" She gestured at the growing pile of breakfast.

"I asked Mike to call when you left," Grissom answered, naming the Dayshift receptionist. "Did you eat before you went in?"

Sara shook her head, smiling wryly. "Just a bagel. Hey, I'm gonna go change clothes."

Grissom waved a fork at her in farewell.

She wasn't even annoyed at Grissom keeping tabs on her any longer, Sara reflected as she stripped off her pantsuit and dressed in something more suitable for her shift. Ever since her abduction he'd been just a touch paranoid about knowing where she was, and Sara had to admit that she could hardly blame him. They'd had a few arguments about it at first, but it was hard for her to stay angry when she could see the fear lurking at the back of his eyes, and eventually they'd found a compromise. She tried to remember to let him know where she was, and didn't complain when he checked up on her, and he kept the checking to a minimum and didn't get angry when she forgot to call him.

Like the rest of their relationship, after a little adjustment, it worked.

_I'm just grateful he hasn't installed GPS on my car,_ she thought dryly as she ran a brush through her hair, and then met her own eyes in the mirror, suddenly wondering.

_How do I know he hasn't?_

The image of Grissom skulking through their garage to implant a tracker on the undercarriage of her Prius made her laugh, and Sara let the thought go. He wasn't _that_ obsessive.

There were still times when she was briefly tempted to pelt him with phone calls, just so he knew what it was like from her side, but knowing him he wouldn't find it annoying...

The scents of waffles and coffee drew her back to the kitchen and her lover, and plates heaped high with the confection. Grissom had sliced strawberries on top and even whipped some cream, and Sara moaned softly at the sight; he knew her weakness for strawberries and often catered to it.

Grissom smirked at her. "See something you like?"

Sara returned the smirk and pulled out a chair. "Yeah, but unfortunately he'll have to wait until he gets home from work."

Grissom snickered, and scooped up a fingerful of whipped cream, threatening Sara's nose with it. She grabbed his wrist and redirected the cream to her mouth, removing it in a leisurely fashion and enjoying the way his eyes sparked at the feel of her tongue.

"Unfortunately," he agreed, and Sara laughed and let him go.

She meant half-heartedly to tell him about her case over the meal, but between the timing of Grissom's return and their rather involved reunion after his shift, it was really the first chance she'd had to hear about his trip to Seattle. The weekend convention on decomposition rates kept him talking and Sara asking questions until it was time for her to leave for work again, and she closed the front door behind her with one more kiss tingling on her lips and a much lighter heart than when she'd come home.

That was part of the difference, Sara reflected as she drove to the lab. _Grissom _was the difference. She'd burnt out on work just as he had, but for both of them the saving grace had been the other--having someone to come home to. It made work less all-consuming. _Among other things._

Sara thought back to the time she'd spent in San Francisco, trying to lay her ghosts to rest, getting to know her mother from the perspective of an adult. Hannah West had driven her from Grissom and Las Vegas, but only for a while, and in the end it had been a good thing.

_Not that I'm going to hunt her up and thank her for it. _With Marlon West dead, there was no evidence that Hannah had murdered Kira Dellinger, even if they _knew_ she had. So instead of justice, Hannah got a lawsuit against the county and not even a slap on the wrist.

_Or a psych evaluation, which is probably more what she needed--_

Sara took a deep breath and let it out in a controlled sigh, deliberately banishing thoughts of the brilliant teen. There was no need to raise her own blood pressure over the past; every criminalist knew that there were sometimes cases where the perpetrator just got away clean.

Sara glanced at the date-time display on a bank as she neared the lab, idly calculating months in her head, and thinking back to the discussion she'd had with Grissom before returning to Las Vegas.

"_Let's give it a year." His face was serious, and Sara cocked her head, regarding him and ignoring for the moment the spectacular view of Fort Point behind him. _

"_Give what a year?" The rock she was sitting on was cold and rough, and the wind cut with chill, but his hand wrapped warmly around hers was more than enough to counter the discomforts. _

"_The lab. Las Vegas. All of it." His grip tightened, and the wind ruffled his hair until he looked heartbreakingly adorable. "A year, Sara. If we're not both happy by the end of it, we leave."_

_Her throat swelled at the realization that he was willing to give all that up. "The lab? Or Las Vegas?" _

"_Both, if necessary." He lifted his other hand, surrounding hers in the heat that was an essential part of him. "I want you to come home, but more than that I want you to be happy. Maybe it's time to move on." _

_She'd never considered it in that context; she'd imagined Grissom leaving her, but never the lab, not permanently. But his eyes were entirely honest, clear and calm and without doubt. _

"_Are you sure?" Sara asked. "Because if you're just doing this for me--" _

_He shook his head firmly. "For both of us, sweetheart. One of the many things you've taught me is that there is much more to life than a job." A hint of a smile appeared on his lips. "I don't want to miss out on anything." _

They were two months into that year, and for the moment, Sara thought, they were doing all right. _So far, so good._ Both of them were taking more time off, to spend with each other or alone, and they were even starting to get caught up on all their extra leave time. Grissom had begun collecting travel brochures, and while they hadn't specifically discussed it, Sara suspected that he was formulating plans for a honeymoon.

_A year ago I wouldn't have dared imagine one. Three years ago, this was all impossible. _Sara smiled to herself, still on some private level astonished that she was in a relationship with Grissom. A stable, long-term relationship.

She tried very hard to not take it for granted.

Sara parked her car and walked into the lab, looking forward to the evening and knowing that her beloved would not be far behind.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. All others belong to me, and if you want to borrow them, you have to ask me first. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**Spoilers: through "Bull" **

**Note: this story includes the non-graphic deaths of children.**

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dr. Julia Reyes looked over the edge of her reading glasses at Sara, frowning just the slightest bit, and Sara reflected impatiently that when Grissom did that it was cute; when her boss did, it meant that Sara was about to hear something she didn't want to hear.

"I'm sorry, Sara," Reyes said. Her soft voice went so well with her short, plump form and greying bun, and not at all with her sharp wits and iron will. "You're going to have to put this one aside."

Sara shifted in the seat across from Reyes' desk, which was as ruthlessly tidy as Grissom's was a paperwork disaster. "Look, we have no leads. If you just let me--"

"Exactly; no leads." Reyes pulled off her glasses, letting them drop to her bosom on the leash of their chain. "We have four cases to work tonight among the three of us, and that's just for starters." She sighed, a sound with an edge of sorrow, and it was that added note that made Sara forgive her. "Without any new evidence, the Hsien case will have to go on standby."

Sara thought about arguing, but the most infuriating part was that she knew Reyes was right. Swing shift didn't have enough personnel to handle the cases it did get, most nights, and there really wasn't anything more that could be done with the evidence they did have. On some level in Sara's mind, little Roger Hsien was asking for justice...but they just couldn't supply it.

Not yet, anyway.

"I'm not asking you to make it a cold case just yet, Sara," Reyes added. "But it has to move to the bottom of the priority list."

Once upon a time Sara would have argued all the same, but things had changed. It had taken her a frighteningly long time to regain her energy after she had been abducted, and living with Grissom meant it wasn't as easy to spend hours of extra time at work. And besides, she was trying to better manage her work life. "All right," she conceded, ironically aware that she really didn't have a choice.

"Good. I'll take Ronnie tonight; you go ahead to your assignments, and if you finish up before the end of shift, I'll look the other way if you want to add in a couple of extra hours. No more than two," Reyes warned, holding up a hand as Sara's eyes gleamed.

"Gotcha," Sara said with a grin, and stood up.

She had to admit, she liked her boss.

* * *

Work and life went on. Sara took what time she could snatch to revisit the Hsien case, but nothing new came to light, either in Las Vegas or Yakima. Roger's body was released to his parents, and his short life was relegated to a few lines of obituary in the Yakima _Herald Republic_ and whatever memorial his parents managed to agree on through their animosity. Sara looked up the obituary, but even her obsession didn't extend as far as finding out about his gravestone. 

What was left included his clothes, the garbage bag, a few fibers and reports, and the rosary, and Sara was looking over the latter one more time one night when her phone beeped.

Grimacing, she shut off the alarm and began to pack up the evidence. She stuck to her promise to Dr. Reyes; no more than two hours of overtime per week on the Hsien case, and it wouldn't be officially labeled "cold" until the end of the year.

Putting everything back didn't take long. Sara sealed the box yet again--the lid was getting rather ragged from all the evidence tape--and carried it out to return to the evidence locker.

Unfortunately, she didn't see Nick coming the other way.

"Whoa, Sara!" He managed to catch the box before it hit the floor, fortunately for Sara's piece of mind. She laughed, a bit embarrassed but nonetheless glad to see him.

"Sorry, Nick, I wasn't watching where I was going."

"No problem." He grinned at her and handed the box back, then bent to pick up the file that had slipped from his grip. "I'd ask what you're doing here so late, but it's pretty obvious."

Sara snorted. "I'm about to quit for the night. How're things on Graveyard these days?"

"Busy, what do you expect? We lost our main workaholic." He winked at her. "C'mon, I've got time, I'll walk you to the locker."

They set off down the hallway. "What are you working on?" Sara asked.

Nick shrugged. "Nothing special, just a jewelry store holdup. Amateur job, really kinda boring. I'm hoping Mandy can find something in the prints, because he did have enough brains to wear a ski mask."

"A mask but no gloves? Classic." Sara shifted her grip on the box, amused.

"Yep. What do you have there?" He gestured at her burden.

She sighed. "A dead end. Two-year-old found smothered and dumped in an alley off the Strip, no prints, no nothing. The only thing I have to go on is a rosary, and it's not talking."

"No kidding? That's weird, Sar, we had one like that, like, a month ago."

Sara halted, her head snapping around to stare at him. "A smothered toddler?"

Nick ran his free hand over his head. "No, she was about six, I guess, but she had a rosary in one hand. Laid out on a little patch of grass behind a laundromat."

Her gaze didn't waver. "Any leads? Signs of abuse?"

"Nothin'. She'd only been missing about ten hours."

Sara started walking, her stride so quick that it took Nick a few steps to catch up with her. "I need to see your evidence."

* * *

"Sara." 

She didn't look up from her microscope. "Mmm?"

Cloth rustled, a shoe tapped the floor, and then someone touched her shoulder, a warm slide of palm over her labcoat sleeve. That would have been a tip-off, if she hadn't already known who was there before he even spoke.

"Sara, it's the end of Nightshift. It's time to go home."

It was strange, how much power love could give; love given, and returned. She raised her head, blinking at Grissom. "Is there any way I can talk you into going home without me?"

He pursed his lips, but the smile came through anyway. "Not this morning, dear. You've worked two full shifts, and besides--" He lowered his voice. "--I won't sleep well if you're not in bed with me."

That last was an old saw, but it held a grain of truth. Sara considered pushing it, but her eyes were starting to blur a bit, and…

…And besides, six hours of going over the scanty evidence from Nick's case had yielded no more leads than she'd had before--that is to say, none. Ethnicity, age, and gender had all been different; Trisha Tomlin had been a local, born in Las Vegas. She had disappeared one sunny afternoon from her front yard, where she'd been playing with her stuffed animals. No ransom demand, no note, no abuse of any kind.

Just a double dose of diphenhydramine and the shadow of a bruise around her nose and mouth. And a rosary in her hand.

No prints. No fibers. No DNA.

She blew out a breath. "All right, you talked me into it."

Her reward was a tap of his forefinger against his lips, their secret shorthand for a kiss deferred, and another smile. "Want some help?"

Sara pressed her hands to the small of her back, stretching out the kinks, and enjoyed the way Grissom's eyes followed her movement. "No, there isn't a lot here. See you at home?"

"No." Grissom folded his arms. "I'll see you in the parking lot."

She rolled her eyes, pretending offense, and shuffled the photos back into their file. Grissom chuckled, and left.

Ten minutes later she waved at him where he waited by his Mercedes, three rows over. "See? Leaving now!" she hollered.

She could almost hear his snort, and Sara grinned, climbing into her own car. It had become almost a game, his watchfulness--not because of paranoia, but because he knew that if he left without her, the odds were good that she would go right back to what she had been doing.

Her shift change had worked out surprisingly well, once she'd settled back in, Sara mused as she drove home, trying to keep Grissom's car in sight ahead of her. It wasn't as much fun as working with Grissom had been, but it was a decent compromise, and it was definitely better than being opposite him on Days.

To say nothing of having Dr. Reyes as a boss instead of Ecklie.

She still needed less sleep than Grissom, though there were certainly pleasures to be had in rousing halfway to the feeling of him enveloping her in a sleepy embrace when he got home. Either she would wake all the way for a good snuggle--or more--or they would both sleep; Sara usually woke before him, and got up to run or do chores, and have the coffee ready when Grissom's alarm went off.

They would eat together, maybe run an errand or talk or just sit and read, and eventually Sara would leave for work, knowing that if nothing else she would be able to stop by his office later and say hello.

It worked.

Grissom beat her home by only a minute or so, and Sara parked her Prius next to his car and hit the remote to close the garage door. He had insisted on a two-car garage when they'd begun house-hunting, and Sara hadn't argued; the safety factor was significant.

The garage door opened into the kitchen, which was larger than either of their previous ones and provided plenty of space for cooking together. Sara dropped her keys on the counter by the door, next to Grissom's, and shot the bolt behind her with the unthinking motion of habit.

Her fiancé was not in sight, but she heard his voice coming from deeper in the house--speaking to the phone, it seemed, rather than to her. Sara stepped out of her shoes and picked them up, heading for the bedroom to change and suddenly aware of how hungry she was. Normally she ate when she got home after shift, but today--

Grissom came out of his study, snapping shut his cellphone, and smiled at her. "Dinner should be here in ten minutes or so--you change and I'll set the table."

She raised a brow at his phone. "Don't tell me they--whoever they are--are delivering that fast."

He gave her a one-sided smirk. "No, I called before we left work. Hunan Manor okay?"

The question was rhetorical, and Sara leaned in to give him a kiss instead of an answer. Grissom made a small, pleased sound against her lips, then pulled away. "Good."

Sara tapped his nose with her finger, a teasing gesture, and continued on to the bedroom.

She chose a pair of cotton drawstring pants and one of Grissom's sweatshirts; it was so cliché, but she did enjoy wearing his clothes, and he loved it when she did. Knowing that dinner would be a few minutes, she took her time washing off her makeup.

Grissom was just closing the door behind the delivery person when Sara came out, and she took the bag from him and unloaded the steamy, fragrant contents onto the table. Both she and Grissom liked to cook, though she had to admit that he was the better chef, but a few times a week it was just easier to order in. This time, though, there seemed to be half again as many cartons as usual.

Grissom was cheerful, and his easy banter distracted Sara from the puzzles of Roger Hsien and Trisha Tomlin; it took her a while to notice that Grissom kept refilling her plate. Finally she pinned his arm as he made to spoon out more rice.

"All right, what's with the overfeeding? At this rate I'm going to pass out from carbohydrate overload."

"That's the idea." Grissom held out the carton. "You're not going to have much time to sleep before work; I want you to _sleep."_

Sara smirked at him. "There are other ways to accomplish that, you know."

He chuckled, and when she didn't take the rice, put it down. "Oh, those are on the list too. I'm just hedging my bets."

She had to laugh. "Serve you right if I fall asleep in the middle."

Grissom's smile took on a sensual edge, the look that always made her shiver in the best way. "I think I can avoid that."

As it happened, though, it wasn't necessary. Grissom insisted on giving her a backrub after dinner, and promptly turned Sara into a boneless, blissful jelly. When he made to get up, she protested muzzily, and he pressed a kiss to her temple. "I'll be right back, sweetheart."

She was asleep within seconds.

* * *

Sara was at Dr. Reyes' door the minute her supervisor came in to work, armed with the evidence reports from Nick's case. To her disappointment, however, Reyes didn't give her carte blanche. 

"You know CSI Stokes better than I, Sara," she said, leaning against her desk and fidgeting idly with her glasses. "Would he have missed anything in his investigation?"

Sara's determination wilted slightly. Nick might not be brilliant, but he was thorough--and doubly so on any case involving children. "No."

Reyes nodded. "Go over his reports, see if anything new comes up in comparison. If not, it goes back down the list again."

Sara stared at her boss. "A possible serial?" She was going to owe Ronnie an apology, she thought absently.

"Three makes a serial, and while I'll admit the odds of coincidence are very low, we've both seen stranger things." At Sara's huff, Reyes smiled slightly. "Look, we both know it's most likely the same killer, but without leads and a third victim, I can't justify the time. The curse of the bean-counters."

Sara frowned. "So we wait for him to kill again?"

Reyes sighed, the lines deepening in her face to age her a decade's worth. "We hope that he's done or moved on. Go, Sara. See what you can find. But you're on your own unless you turn something up."

* * *

Sara spent half her shift looking over Nick's data, but his results were as frustrating as hers. There was a commonality in how the children had been killed, but not in their backgrounds; Trisha had come from a poor neighborhood. Her father had been released from prison three days after her death, and her mother had immediately taken out a restraining order against him. Sara looked up his offense and felt the old rage flare at his light sentence for assault and battery. 

_He beat his wife half to death, and got a slap on the wrist. Typical._

She took a deep breath and deliberately let her anger go; Sara recused herself from spousal abuse cases these days, a decision that Reyes quietly supported. Someday she might take them up again, but she wasn't ready yet.

If the timing had been different, Sara might have suspected Mr. Tomlin of his daughter's murder, but he had been securely locked up the night she had died. Nick had talked to a couple of Tomlin's prison associates, Sara noted; he had obviously been running the same hunch. But nothing turned up there either.

And neither of the Tomlins were Catholic.

Frowning, Sara did a little research, trying to find out whether rosaries were used by any other faith, but turned up nothing that remotely resembled the small crystal beads and silver medals left with the victims. She stared at the image of a knotted prayer rope for some time, feeling the beginnings of a hunch teasing at the edge of her mind, but it remained outside her grasp.

_The rosaries are obviously significant. Remorse? Protection for the soul? Some kind of warning? _

She was about to start reading up on Catholic rosaries in particular--the amount of information available through Google was daunting--but a tentative knock on the door of her tiny office made her look up.

"Any luck?" Ronnie asked cautiously.

Sara grimaced. "Nope. Still a mystery. What's up?"

The younger CSI hesitated. "Dr. Reyes says that if you haven't found any new leads, she has, I quote, plenty for you to do. Unquote."

Sara regarded her, and wondered when she had been such a bitch recently as to make Ronnie so wary now. "Okay." She closed the browser window.

Ronnie grinned, her caution vanishing. "So is it a serial?"

She glared harmlessly at her. "Probably. Not officially."

Ronnie sobered slightly, possibly remembering what it would take to make it official. "Well, Dr. Reyes gave me two slips, a burglary on the north side and a suspicious death at the Lucky Dice Motel. Which one first?"

Sara snagged her vest and her kit. "You pick. I drive."

* * *

She was planning another assault at the end of shift, but Reyes found her first. "No overtime today," she said sternly, reaching over Sara's desk to shut off her monitor. 

"I didn't put last night on the books," Sara protested, but Reyes' frown didn't abate.

"That's not the point. You worked a double shift yesterday and came in short on sleep. Sara--" She held up a hand to ward off Sara's protest. "Look at it from my point of view. Letting you wear yourself out on a hot case is one thing; we all do it when necessary. Letting you do the same over something one step up from cold is irresponsible. We have three people on our shift; if any one of us gets sick, I have to pull in someone from another shift, which is disruptive to everyone."

Sara drew in a breath, then bit her tongue. Reyes had a definite point; the week when Ronnie had contracted the flu had been memorable for many reasons.

And, Sara knew, she could just as easily research rosaries at home.

"All right," she conceded, and Reyes smiled approvingly.

"Thank you. Now go home."

Sara complied, picking up a double latte on the way. She spent three hours on her laptop, absorbing information about rosaries in general, the Rosary in particular, and the history behind the concept, but eventually she found no new information. Cursing the underfunding that meant that the city's libraries kept day hours only, she made up a list of books to find, and shut down her machine.

There was plenty of leftover Chinese food for supper. Sara leaned against the kitchen counter as she ate, thinking fondly of Grissom and his efforts to see that she got enough sleep. She might not admit it out loud, but she loved it when he took care of her.

The independence for which she had fought so hard had somehow become less urgent once she and Grissom had finally begun a true relationship. It had not taken her long to figure out that someone as reserved as he was would find nonverbal ways to express affection; she had learned to accept them without protest.

And he never tried to clip her wings, either. Grissom trusted her judgment, and understood that she sometimes needed time alone; in fact, he needed such time too. He had supported her sudden sabbatical, waiting patiently for her to return to Vegas and to him. Grissom sometimes voiced a different opinion, or even a protest, over her choices, but he never tried to dominate her. Theirs was an equal partnership.

Sara had observed the relationships of friends and acquaintances for years, often finding little to admire. Sure, romance was nice, but the manipulation that so often took place within a pairing turned her off, big time. The anger-driven bullying of her father and frantic placating of her mother, the sanctimonious authority of male chauvinists, the capricious whining of selfish women--it all left her cold.

Grissom--she could trust him. She did trust him, had from the moment she'd first woken up to his sleepy, adoring smile. They didn't need to meet the expectations of society when it came to their relationship, they had only to satisfy themselves.

_Speaking of which--_

There was nothing more she could do on the case now, and Sara was getting tired. But Grissom had made a promise the day before, one that had not yet been fulfilled.

Pleased anticipation curling in her belly, Sara brushed her teeth and had a long shower, taking the time to blow-dry her hair afterwards and lotioning up her arms and legs. Opening her lingerie drawer, she fished underneath her panties and bras for an item she'd purchased weeks before but had not yet used. It was comfortable enough to sleep in, but...interesting...enough to catch Grissom's attention.

Grabbing her cellphone, Sara sat on the edge of the bed and hit the speed dial.

Within two rings, Grissom answered. "Hello," was all he said, but the tone made her smile.

"Hey Gil. I'm heading to bed--are you going to be late tonight?" She heard voices in the background, and pictured him outdoors, bent over a body or a piece of evidence.

"Nope, I don't think so--this is pretty straightforward. Everything okay?"

"Yeah, fine--there's still some beef with broccoli left for when you get home. See you when you get here."

"Not if I'm quiet enough," he said cheerfully, and Sara snickered.

"We'll see. Love you."

"You too," he answered, all he could say in public. Sara closed her phone, donned her chosen outfit, and slid into bed.

The anticipation had her smiling as she fell asleep.

* * *

Five hours was enough to get by on. Sara woke all the way up when she felt the mattress dip, and opened her eyes to see Grissom sitting on the edge, pulling off his shirt. Shoving off the cover, she got to her knees and hugged him from behind, arms around his shoulders. 

"Hello there." Warm fingers closed around her wrist, and Sara felt her hand tugged upward to receive a kiss on the palm. "Shouldn't you be asleep?"

She returned the favor against the nape of his neck. "Hmm. Well, you know, you owe me something."

Grissom turned his head to look at her, smiling. "I do?"

"Yep. I'm here to collect." Sara let him go and sat back on her heels so he could see all of her. His reaction was gratifying; his eyes widened and the pupils expanded, and she could all but smell a surge of testosterone.

Grissom pulled in a breath. "Far be it from me to welsh on a debt," he managed. The pulse in his throat was speeding up.

Sara let him look his fill, and then pounced.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. All others belong to me, and if you want to borrow them, you have to ask me first. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**Spoilers: through "Bull" **

**Note: this story includes the non-graphic deaths of children.**

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sara eventually had to go to the university library for the books she wanted, and in the end they didn't do her much good. "There's too much information," she complained to Reyes a few evenings later, as they absorbed coffee before the start of shift. "Rosaries are crammed with symbolization. It could mean a dozen different things."

The supervisor added creamer to her coffee. "Can you trace the manufacturer?"

Sara grimaced. "There's no brand name on the ones found with the victims. There are literally thousands of companies making the things, and I get way too many hits when I enter a description. They aren't just sold in stores, either; churches carry them too."

Reyes nodded sympathetically. "Did you check to see if there were similar murders elsewhere?"

"Yeah. Nothing."

Before Reyes could reply, Ronnie stuck her head into the breakroom. "Hey, Sara, it _is_ a serial."

She frowned at the rookie's excited face. "What are you talking about?"

"I was just talking to Lawrence, he's coming off shift now. They caught a case just like yours two days ago."

Sara and Reyes exchanged a glance, and as one headed for the door. "Communication around this place sucks," Sara grumbled, and pointed a finger at Ronnie as she passed her. "Good work, Lake."

"Yes indeed," Reyes seconded, hurrying after Sara and catching her arm. "Let me handle Ecklie."

Sara slowed at the mention of the assistant director, and let her boss take the lead. Ecklie had been surprisingly decent about Sara's affair with Grissom, she gave him full credit for that, but the two of them were still fundamentally at odds.

_He thinks I'm a threat, and I know he's a kiss-ass._

Reyes, however, had a gift for diplomacy, and with that and a touch of judicious flattery she got Dayshift's official cooperation with the rosary murders. She had to fight a little harder to get Sara assigned the lead on the cases, but in the end Ecklie gave in. The reports and evidence were turned over to Sara.

First, however, she went down to the morgue. The latest victim's body had not yet been released.

The Dayshift coroner was gone, but Dr. Nat was just pulling on her scrubs. "What's up?" she asked as Sara came in. "I don't think I have anybody of yours down here tonight."

Sara shook her head. "I'm here about the Baby Doe case from two days ago."

Nat put her hands on her hips as she thought. "Hmm--right. Drawer Four--I'll go find you the paperwork."

As Nat went to rummage in the file cabinet, Sara opened the drawer. Baby Doe was really an undernourished four years old, rather than an infant, and had the features of someone of Hispanic-South American Indian descent. He had been washed as part of the autopsy, but there were old bruises on his arms and legs and a half-healed contusion on his scalp.

Nat came to Sara's side, handing over a file. "Not pretty," she said somberly. "Long-term abuse, including sexual, but none of it perimortem. Looks like the one person who treated him gently was his killer."

Sara thumbed through the reports. Diphenhydramine, evidence of smothering, a rosary in one hand. No one had come forward yet to report this child missing, let alone claim his body, and Sara felt her skull grow heavy again at the further evidence of neglect.

"I don't understand his choices," she said, half to herself. "All these kids are different ages, genders, races. Usually a serial has a specific type, but the only thing these kids have in common is that they're all six or younger."

Nat made a thoughtful sound. "Maybe the killer thinks they have something in common. I mean," she gestured at the small, still form, "anybody who does this has to be sick in the head. What if he's imagining the commonality?"

Sara smiled sourly. "So now I have to figure out what a serial killer is _imagining?_ Nat, you're not helping."

Nat turned her hands palm-up, shrugging amusedly. "Hey, I just handle the scalpel."

* * *

The photos on the lightboxes were trying to tell her something, Sara knew; she just couldn't figure out what. _I'm missing something. I don't know enough._

_What is it?_

The figure on the central medal was almost certainly a saint, but while Sara had loved to read about saints as a child, she couldn't recognize many by sight, and the old stories had become somewhat hazed by time.

This time the knock made her look up at once. Grissom was standing in the doorway, leaning one fist against the frame. "You didn't stop by," he said mildly. "New case?"

Sara narrowed her eyes, thinking, then made a decision. "You know more about rosaries than I do," she said abruptly. "Tell me what I'm looking at." She stood aside so Grissom would have room to examine the photographs.

She waited as he perused each one carefully. Sara had hesitated to ask Grissom about the rosaries, even though she knew he was far more expert on the subject than she; for some reason, she was still cautious about offending his religious sensibilities, despite his reassurances to the contrary. She'd grown up in a home that had had nothing to do with either faith or religion, and they were still somewhat unknown territories for her.

"Saint Nicholas," Grissom said, his finger hovering over one photograph. "Patron saint of sailors, merchants, and pawnbrokers."

"Sounds...interesting." Sara moved to stand beside him for a better look at the enlarged image.

"He's one of the historical influences behind Santa Claus," Grissom explained easily. "He's also a children's saint."

_Now that makes sense._ Sara nodded; she'd known the first fact but not the second. "That explains why there are three of them around him."

"You should look up the story. Technically speaking, you know, these aren't rosaries."

Sara blinked. "What?"

Grissom pointed to the beads. "See how these are in groups of three? A rosary has groups of ten. This is actually what is known as a chaplet."

"I did not know that." Sara frowned at the photos. How had she missed that detail while researching?

"It's not something a non-Catholic would necessarily be aware of." He frowned at the photos. "That's odd..."

"What's odd?" Sara pulled down one of the photos and stared at it, counting beads.

Grissom lifted one shoulder. "I've never heard of a Saint Nicholas chaplet. But I'm hardly an expert any longer."

"I'll read up on them," Sara said absently. "Thanks, Gil."

"Don't stay too late." He squeezed her arm and stepped away.

She didn't look up until he reached the door again, but as he glanced back, she raised her head and tapped her lips with one finger.

His smile was brilliant.

* * *

The fourth case was as maddening as the others. Greta von Hillman was two days short of seven years old. Her family had moved to Las Vegas three years prior, and she had just been diagnosed with cystic fibrosis. She was found on a Sunday afternoon, thirty hours after she'd left her home to go to play with a friend who lived only two blocks away. 

Needless to say, she had never arrived there.

Sara knelt over the body, silently cursing whoever was murdering children, and wishing she'd had time to grab a scarf on the way out of the house. _Not that it would have gone with a vest anyway, but oh well…_

If Oguntayo, who was taking the weekend Dayshift this week, had noticed the reddened area on Sara's throat, he was saying nothing; but then, that was normal for him anyway.

_Focus, Sidle._ Getting interrupted in the middle of a necking session wasn't _that_ unusual. "Any signs of trauma?" she asked Oguntayo.

He rolled the little form gently onto its side, then back down again, shaking his head. "Nothin' obvious."

They both knew that an autopsy would be needed to confirm his pronouncement, but the small crystal-bead chaplet folded in Greta's hand told them that he was most likely right.

Sara scanned the girl's clothing, a quick pass for trace that wasn't there, and hissed to herself. "I want this guy."

Oguntayo's grunt was agreement. With care, he enfolded the corpse into a body bag, and Sara began to canvas the area without much hope of finding anything. Fortunately for her, the dump site was small, a scrap of dusty ground between a post office and its back parking lot.

_Just as well, since I'm on my own today--_

The work was tedious and frustrating, but on one level Sara didn't mind working solo. The killer was good; any slip-up would be minor, and if she went over every inch of the scene herself she would know that nothing had been missed. Ronnie was shaping up to be a decent CSI, but she wasn't there yet.

Sara did miss working with people she could trust to handle a scene. Dr. Reyes was an expert, but she didn't usually work with Sara; it was easier to have the two senior investigators on the shift handle different cases and trade off Ronnie between them.

She was hot, sweaty, and irritable by the time she was done, but Sara managed to finish the scene before the sun went down. She had found three shoeprints that were almost certainly not the killer's, collected a small selection of trash that would all have to be tested for DNA, and wondered for the thousandth time what the motivation was behind the killings. They weren't escalating in violence or frequency; there were still no signs of injury on the victims that could be attributed to their kidnapper; and no one working on the cases had yet been able to find any connection between the children, except that they were all below the age of seven.

_Well, that and the fact that they were all murdered in Las Vegas. _

It was a relief to get to the air-conditioned lab. Sara dropped off the trash at DNA and stopped to change her shirt before heading down to the morgue. She pushed through the doors to find Dr. Nat undressing Greta's body.

"Hey," Sara greeted her, fresh sorrow welling up under her breastbone. Somehow the sight of Greta's long blonde braids hit her hard; they were so carefully plaited and tied, the loving work of someone's hands.

"Hiya." Nat barely glanced up from her task. "Got a bit of trace this time, off the front of her t-shirt."

She nodded at the pan sitting on the edge of the autopsy table, and Sara picked up the little paper bindle within and opened it, hope blooming.

"No skin tag, I'm afraid," Nat went on, folding Greta's shirt and sliding it into a larger bag. "But you might get lucky on comparison."

Sara snagged a pair of forceps from Nat's array of equipment and lifted the hair into the light. It was short and silvery, and as she examined it Sara felt her anticipation morph into embarrassment.

"Why the blush?" Nat asked from across the table.

Sara shook her head and carefully replaced the hair in the bindle. "Um…I think I probably contaminated the scene."

It wasn't really a cause for shame; as Locard's principle noted, any contact between two objects resulted in exchange, and all crime scene investigators knew that they themselves contaminated scenes just by processing them. There was no way to prevent it; the goal was to keep the contamination as minimal as was practical.

_It's not like we can process in bunny suits. Efficiently, anyway. And that's why we have a compliance database._

Still, she couldn't know without further examination, so Sara sealed the bindle again.

"Hair of the fiancé? What _were_ you up to before you came in?" Nat asked, eyes twinkling, and Sara tried to glare at her, willing the heat in her face to die down.

"Wouldn't you like to know." She dropped the bindle into her labcoat pocket.

Nat snickered. "Can't say as I blame you. I love older men." She untied Greta's left sneaker, sobering. "This'll take a while, but preliminary findings indicate the same M.O. as previous victims. Minimal bruising around the mouth."

"Check for needle marks." Sara looked sadly on as Nat removed the other sneaker. The smaller victims had been given the diphenhydramine by mouth, but they still did not know how the older girls had been sedated. "This one is definitely old enough to know better than to take food from a stranger."

"Old enough doesn't mean smart enough," Nat pointed out, carefully peeling off the small socks. "But yeah, it's not likely. I have a theory, though."

She finished undressing the body with gentle swiftness, handing the clothes to Sara to bag, and began examining Greta's greying skin. "I couldn't find anything on Trisha Tomlin," she explained, "but by the time I saw the body it had already been washed, and nobody would be looking for this because diphenhydramine is only readily available as an oral medication. But..."

Her gloved fingers paused on the body's upper arm, just below the shoulder. "Here."

Sara bent, squinted, and reached for a magnifying glass. Through it she saw the faintest trace of something glistening on the skin, already collecting bits of dust and lint.

"Adhesive. A patch?"

"I'm guessing yes." Nat held the limb steady as Sara set up the morgue's camera for a close shot of the area. "A kid this age might know not to eat something a stranger offered, but a sticker or a temporary tattoo--"

Sara snapped several photos. "Can you confirm this?"

"Won't take too long." Nat smoothed a hand over the long braids, her eyes dark, and Sara took the film and the bags with a nod of thanks, leaving Nat to her work.

* * *

Ronnie helped her process the clothes and other evidence. It was a bit embarrassing to have to explain to her that the most solid clue they'd yet found was most likely cross-contamination, but Ronnie merely shrugged philosophically. "Hey, it happens, that's what you told me before." 

Sara, remembering the rookie's slip on a bloody floor that dropped her onto a fresh corpse, had to concede.

There was something to be said for being senior, too; Ronnie didn't try to tease her about the hair. Even Greg wouldn't have let that one go by. But then, Ronnie hadn't been witness to Sara's years of interaction with Grissom, either...

Ronnie peered at the hair, now firmly fixed on a microscope slide. "With no skin tag, though, we can't tell for sure, can we?"

Sara nodded in approval. "That's why it's still labeled as possible evidence. If a similar hair turns up on another body, we can compare." She rubbed her forehead wearily with the back of her wrist, bleakly hoping that there would be no further bodies but knowing that her wish was most likely futile. "Without DNA, though, it's useless at the moment."

Ronnie made a vaguely agreeing noise, holding one of the sneakers under a brighter lamp for a better look. After a minute she spoke again.

"Whoever this is...he has to be pretty good at forensics."

"Yeah." It was a thought Sara did not enjoy. It was possible for a layman to be this careful, particularly if they were the brand of obsessive that so often characterized a serial killer, but with each fresh corpse the odds grew that the murderer was or had been part of the law enforcement community. Sooner or later, laymen always missed a spot.

_Be honest. Forensics investigators miss spots too. It takes a lot of experience to think of everything, every possible contingency._

Experience, and a mind tuned to a scene, ready to consider all angles. Sara knew investigators like that--she used to work with them, after all, and had been taught by the best of them. _Still, I guess if I were going to stage a scene I'd put a lot of thought into it ahead of time._

She put the hair away and moved on to Greta's shirt. It was beginning to look as though the only thing that was going to trip up this killer was random, unavoidable chance.

_He...or she...always chooses places without security cameras or casual observers. He doesn't keep his victims for long, so there's less opportunity for transfer; in fact, he might not even take them anywhere personal, just drug and smother and place them within a few hours. _

Sara looked at the evidence neatly placed around the table. The trash was with DNA, and she really didn't have much hope that anything would turn up with that; it was most likely already on the scene when the killer had placed the body. "Ronnie," she said, "I have an assignment for you."

Ronnie looked up from the shoe, setting down her magnifying glass. "Sure, what is it?"

Sara reached out and took the shoe. "I want you to find out where someone would buy diphenhydramine patches."

"Ooh, Internet research." Ronnie's eyes lit; a true geek, she loved to chase leads online, and was expert at it. "Thanks, Sara!"

Interlacing her fingers and cracking her knuckles theatrically, Ronnie hurried out of the room in search of a computer terminal. Sara watched her go, amused and a little proud, and went back to work.

* * *

"How's your case going?" Grissom asked that morning, when he came home to find Sara nursing a cup of tea in the living room instead of curled up in bed. 

"Nowhere," she said flatly, hearing her own frustration in her voice, though her spirits lifted slightly as he bent down to give her a kiss.

"Some cases are like that," he said, resignation in his tone, and his hand brushed lightly over her hair as he went to lay down the files he'd brought home from the lab. "But if he screws up the slightest bit, Sara, you'll catch him. I have faith in you."

She smiled sourly, cradling her cup and watching him as he toed off his shoes and left them neatly paired against the wall. "That's what it's going to take, at this point--him making a major mistake. I hate to admit it, Gil, but this one is scary."

Grissom sat down at the other end of the couch, half-facing her, and they were both silent for a moment, remembering the last serial killer to defeat them so soundly. Natalie was never a pleasant memory.

But in the end...they had won. A hard victory, but theirs.

"Want to talk it out?" Grissom offered. "A fresh perspective might help."

Sara swallowed a mouthful of tea. "Sure."

She gave him the particulars of each case, laying out the deaths like puzzle pieces, keeping the emotions at bay for the moment. The careful presentation, the lack of any usable trace; the gentleness of the murders, the chaplets.

"It's as though the killer specifically doesn't want his victims to suffer," Sara mused at last. "Sedating them keeps them from even knowing they're going to die."

"It could also be a way to keep them from fighting," Grissom noted practically. "But you're right. Whoever he is, he's not getting the usual thrill from the kill."

"The chaplets are key, that's obvious." Sara set down her empty mug. "But I don't know what they mean."

Grissom nodded. "There are really too many meanings attached--it could be remorse, but the killer could also be acting from some sort of religious impulse. He might even see himself as a representative or incarnation of Saint Nicholas."

Sara groaned. "That's all we need, a serial who thinks he's Santa Claus." She gazed at her fiancé, noting the shadows under his eyes despite his interest in her cases, and reached for his stockinged feet, lifting them into her lap and beginning to rub the left one. "Is he seeing these kids as heretics of some kind? I mean, two years old is a little young to be a confirmed heathen..."

Grissom groaned in turn. "Sara...you know I can't think when you do that..."

His face was now a picture of bliss, eyes half-shut as Sara dug her thumbs into his arch. She chuckled, pleased. "Really? Not even if I told you there were bugs on the last one?" she teased.

He peered blearily at her, but she could see the twinkle. "Huh?"

Sara laughed out loud, and kept going.

* * *

It was later, when he was snoring softly behind her and the morning light was brightening around the edges of the shades, that the idea rose to the surface of her drifting thoughts, pulling Sara from her drowsy state. 

_There is one commonality._

It was a fragile idea, and Sara extracted herself carefully from Grissom's embrace, not wanting to wake him. Grabbing one of his shirts, she pulled it on and padded out to her study, booting up her laptop and waiting impatiently to go online.

The case details were all firmly implanted in her memory, she didn't need to look anything up. But all prospects of sleep vanished as she turned the idea over in her mind.

Roger Hsien, his parents about to begin a messy divorce.

Trisha Tomlin, whose violent father was due to be released from prison.

Baby Doe, still unidentified, who had been abused all his short life.

Greta von Hellman, just diagnosed with an unpleasant and eventually terminal disease.

The patron saint of children.

_What if the killer is saving them? _

Four samples was really too few on which to base so slight a theory, but four was all Sara had to go on. Opening her browser, she began to research Saint Nicholas.

Three hours later, her eyes were blurring and her printer was out of paper, but she had a sketchy basis for her theory. Nicholas was an early saint of the church, and so factual details about him were few, but countless rescues of endangered children were attributed to his intercession. He was even said to have resurrected the three shown on the medals, after they were slaughtered by a butcher.

Being an agnostic and a skeptic, Sara did not place a lot of faith in the idea that the man had actually existed, or done even a tenth of what was now attributed to him, but she knew her disbelief didn't matter.

_What matters is what the killer believes. And if he's Catholic, he may even believe that these kids will be resurrected someday._

She stared at the image on the screen, a bearded man stamped in metal--hardly more than a crude image, but carrying so much power and symbolism for so many.

_Who are you? _

_Why are you doing this? _

She had no answers.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. All others belong to me, and if you want to borrow them, you have to ask me first. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**Spoilers: through "Bull"**

**Note: this story includes the non-graphic deaths of children.**

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"What have you got?" Sara asked Ronnie that evening as they poured themselves coffee in the breakroom, ten minutes before the start of shift.

Ronnie added several packets of sugar to her coffee, making Sara hide a wince. "Basically, you can't get diphenhydramine in patch form in the United States. In fact, as far as I can tell, you can't get it anywhere. But I'd bet a lot of money that if you know the right people in the right place, you can have it made up custom."

Sara blew out a breath, disappointed but not really surprised. "Probably a safe bet. Thanks, Ronnie."

Ronnie pulled out a chair and sat, blowing gingerly on her cup. "We're not going to be able to trace it, are we?"

Sara leaned against the table, thinking unhappily of Greta. "Nope. I have another assignment for you, though, if Julia doesn't have anything urgent."

Ronnie nodded, and Sara waited, amusement stirring. If she knew the girl's curiosity...

Ronnie shifted, cleared her throat, sipped her drink, and finally glared at Sara. "All right, all right--what is it?"

_All of thirty seconds. Didn't even beat her previous record._ "I need you to find out where someone would get a Saint Nicholas chaplet. You might need to go talk to people if you can't find out online."

Eyes bright, Ronnie nodded and started to get up, but Sara laid a hand on her shoulder and pressed down. "Hey, you still have seven minutes before shift starts!"

Dr. Reyes came in to find them laughing, and she smiled at them both, eyes crinkling. "Good evening, people. Glad to see you're doing well."

Sara and Ronnie tried to compose themselves. "What's up tonight, boss?" Sara asked, smothering a last chuckle.

"Ronnie, you have a break-in at a pawn shop." Reyes handed her a slip of paper. "When you're done with that, report to Sara unless you hear otherwise."

Grinning still, Ronnie rose, scooped up her cup, and took the slip. "You got it."

Reyes turned to Sara. "I want your report on the serial first; we'll go to my office."

Sara nodded, and tossed a wave to Ronnie as she hurried out of the room.

It didn't take long to outline the facts to Reyes. Sara added her speculations as well, then fell silent.

Reyes sat back, obviously thinking, and Sara waited patiently. Finally her boss stirred and spoke.

"So what we have is a killer not only skilled in forensics, but someone who has access to court and medical records--and not just those of Nevada."

"It looks like it," Sara admitted. "It's possible that the killer just happened to know all the children in question, or at least know their histories, but it's more likely that it's someone working in law enforcement."

Reyes' breath hissed through her teeth, an angry sound. "One of our own. That's bad."

Sara scowled in agreement. Betrayal of oaths aside, investigating one's own team, as it were, was always, always painful and messy and difficult. The investigation itself would be seen as a betrayal, and the repercussions often lasted for months, even years, fracturing the trust between the investigators and those with whom they worked.

"It doesn't have to be someone working for Las Vegas," she pointed out dutifully, but Reyes' glance across the desk said what they both knew--a killer staging scenes in the city most likely belonged to the city.

"Who has access to those records on a regular basis?" Reyes asked thoughtfully.

Sara shrugged. "Lawyers, court advocates, social workers, coroners. None of whom are going to be experts in forensics." CSIs and cops both had access to court records as a part of their jobs, but medical records were more of a case-by-case thing.

Reyes fiddled with a pen lying on her tidy desk. "I suppose that it would only take one or two sessions--the killer could have obtained several files at once, if they knew what they were looking for."

"There's no point in trying to track through specific records, not if he has legit access," Sara mused.

Reyes pursed her lips. "Why take a child from Yakima? That doesn't fit the pattern, when all the others are local."

"Opportunity, maybe? No, that doesn't fit." Sara frowned thoughtfully. "That's a hell of a long trip."

"It must be the children specifically," Reyes said, flicking the pen away and looking as frustrated as Sara felt. "He's on a mission to rescue these children."

They looked at each other in mutual exasperation, and Reyes swore softly in Spanish. "All right. Every bit of information is potentially useful, even if we can't use it now. Is there anything more you can do at the moment?"

Sara hesitated, but in the end honesty won out. "No. Ronnie is going to do some more research for me when she gets the chance, but everything's processed as of now."

"All right," Reyes said again, and held out an assignment slip. "Go deal with this. I'll let Ronnie go ahead with your assignment when she gets back, if you'll take anything else that comes up in the meantime."

"Sure." Sara felt her spirits lightening a trifle. Reyes did do her best to be fair.

"You're doing good work, Sara," her boss added seriously. "You're the best CSI for this case, and I'm just sorry that we don't have the resources to let you work it exclusively."

Touched, Sara smiled. Reyes waved a hand in dismissal. "Now get out of here and leave me to my memos."

* * *

Two more days passed without further breaks in the chaplet murders. For a wonder, the press had not yet gotten hold of the fact that a serial killer was at work; it probably helped, Sara reflected, that only two of the families were local, since no one had come forward to claim Baby Doe. But she knew it was only a matter of time before some enterprising reporter found out about the chaplets. 

_Lucky for us that the killer doesn't seem to want attention._

Ronnie managed to fit in her research, finally reporting to Sara and Reyes both. "There _is_ no such thing as a Saint Nicholas chaplet," Ronnie explained in the breakroom before assignments. "He just doesn't seem to be that popular when it comes to prayers, I guess. I went over to Our Lady of Sorrows when I couldn't turn anything up online, and the priest was busy, but there was a nun who was willing to talk to me."

Ronnie smoothed a hand over her hair. "She confirmed that Saint Nicholas doesn't get put into chaplets, but she also said that making them isn't that hard."

Sara leaned forward across the table. "You mean, the killer could be constructing his own chaplets?"

Ronnie shrugged. "Sure. You can get all the parts online, believe me--they're sold all over the place."

Reyes nodded slowly. "Beads, links, a medal and a crucifix. Simple."

"All you'd need is a pair of pliers," Sara added dryly. She suppressed a swearword; she'd been hoping for some traceable chaplet pattern.

Ronnie turned her hands palm upward. "I can try to trace the medals themselves if you like."

Sara glanced at Reyes, who nodded. "And the crucifixes too, please, Ronnie. Thanks."

It was odd, having someone else do the legwork, Sara reflected; she was used to handling the chases herself, spending hours clicking a mouse and peering at a computer screen as she followed leads and tested theories. On one level, she still wanted to do it herself, to make sure nothing was missed. But the division of labor made sense; she could process a scene faster than Ronnie, and could be trusted with any crime solo, while Ronnie was still under supervision for some.

_And I have to admit--she's good at this kind of thing._

"Later," Reyes added. "First, you two get a shooting over behind the Great Mohave." The supervisor stood. "I have a murder to get to over in Henderson, so call me if you finish before I do."

"Right," Ronnie acknowledged. Sara followed her out of the room, remembering with some wistfulness the time when she worked with five other people and there was more _time._

The shooting had produced no fatalities, though one man was in surgery to have a bullet removed from his leg; Sara and Ronnie processed in harmony, measuring angles and testing the shooter for gun shot residue. The area behind the casino was a warren of small streets scarcely bigger than alleys, not deserted but not high-traffic areas either, but the shooter had not run and the scene was relatively small.

Sara scarcely noticed when one of the officers guarding the scene responded to a call on his radio by leaving the area, but within minutes he came back at a run. "Sidle! You're handling the rosary murders, right?"

Sara didn't bother to correct his phrasing, instead looking around and hoping that no one from the press had overheard him. "Yeah--Franklin, what--"

He caught her arm, lowering his voice. "We got a fresh one, right around the corner."

_Shit._ "Ronnie, keep going, find me when you're done," she snapped as she snatched up her kit. Ronnie's mouth opened in surprise, but Sara ducked under the tape before she could answer, and followed the officer at a trot.

The new body wasn't quite right around the corner; it was a block away in an alley full of cardboard recycling Dumpsters. But Franklin had been correct in calling it "fresh". A paramedic was just stepping away. "Still warm," she said sadly.

Sara pushed down a surge of anguish at the sight of the little boy, who looked asleep, his hand curled around yet another chaplet, and whirled on Franklin. "Go back to the SUV and get me the long box from the back, and CSI Lake," she ordered, measuring out the box's dimensions with her hands. "Move!"

Fortunately for her temper, he didn't argue, taking off at a jog back the way they'd come; Sara heard him barking orders into his radio about setting up a search. She stripped off her gloves and stuffed them in a bindle, barely taking the time to seal and label it before pulling on another pair. The paramedic lingered, looking interested. "What is it?"

"How long since TOD?" Sara asked, kneeling down next to the small body.

"No more than half an hour, I'd guess," she answered. "Whoever it was has balls to dump a body right next to a crime scene."

Technically Sara wasn't supposed to touch the body until the coroner pronounced, but if she were careful, it was possible to do this without actually coming into physical contact. "There's a chance we can get fingerprints off his skin if we move quickly."

She leaned over the little boy, trying to judge the angles, and a faint odor reached her nose over the dry smell of cardboard. It was...familiar.

The scent made her blink, but as she reached for the memory, it retreated, leaving her feeling troubled. Sara bent down further and sniffed more deeply, and the smell teased her again, but wouldn't come clear. _Grissom would be proud of me,_ she thought absently, and wished for the sniffer device that the Nightshift possessed. She could request it, but by the time it arrived it would be far too late.

A third breath revealed only that the odor was dissipating. Before she could chase it further, Franklin returned, with the box under his arm. Ronnie pounded up behind him, panting.

"Great," Sara said, and had the officer put the box down and open it up. "You can help. Ronnie, have you done this before?"

She knelt too, wide-eyed. "Not outside the lab."

Sara handed them each some poles. "We're setting up a portable fuming chamber. Time is of the essence here, people."

The paramedic, whose shirt label read "Lakeisha", came forward and helped Sara unfold the plastic sheets. Within moments they had the corpse boxed in--without touching it, Sara was proud to note--and she was dripping cyanoacrylate into the fumer.

Footsteps signaled the arrival of more people, and Sara looked over her shoulder to see more cops setting up a perimeter behind Dr. Nat. The coroner crouched down to see what they were doing. "Think you'll find anything?" she asked.

Sara sat back on her heels, watching the fumes begin to curl out of the pan. "No, but we can't afford to miss the chance."

Nat nodded, and raised her brows at the paramedic, who shook her head. Nat glanced at her watch. "I'm pronouncing," she said easily.

Sara shot her a skeptical look, and Nat grinned. "Professional opinion," she said, jerking her head at Lakeisha. "I can look closer when you're done."

They did make an interesting sight, Sara thought, all kneeling around the shrouded figure and waiting for the fuming to finish--one cop, one paramedic, two CSIs, and a coroner. But the procedure wasn't a common one--it was quite unusual to get to a body before the fingerprints-on-skin window was closed.

Finally the time was up. Sara handed out masks from the fuming kit. "Stand back," she warned. "This'll be pretty toxic."

The observers scrambled back a short ways, and Sara slipped on her mask and took hold of the plastic, folding it out of the way and flinching at the rush of acrid vapor.

Ronnie came forward to help her dismantle the apparatus, and as soon as they had it down, Nat knelt next to the body, examining it with quick, deft skill. She concentrated on the exposed skin, since none of the other victims had been stripped and redressed, and after a moment gave a hoot of excitement. "Sara, here!"

Sara snatched up a magnifying glass and bent to look where Nat pointed, at the tanned bare wrist. The cyanoacrylate had settled there, delineating what seemed at first glance to be merely a smudge, but--

Sara held out a hand behind her. "Lifting tape, Ron."

Within seconds, the tape was in her hand. Sara peeled it open and laid it delicately over the spot, pulling it off again with especial care. Folding it over, she lifted it into better light.

"Well?" Nat asked eagerly.

"Maybe," Sara said slowly. "There's not a lot of ridge detail, but we may be able to do something with it. Sharp eyes, Nat."

"Yes!" the coroner hissed in triumph. Sara grinned at her, but felt moved to caution nonetheless.

"It might turn out to be nothing, you know."

"Shut up, I'm celebrating," Nat retorted comically, bending back over the body to continue her search.

No other prints turned up, and Nat made her declaration official and packed up the body. Sara sent Ronnie back to finish the shooting scene while she processed the latest murder.

As she by now expected, nothing else turned up--not even an errant hair. There were plenty of shoeprints to lift in the alley's papery dust, but one broad area leading outward had been swept--not perfectly, but enough to obscure the prints of whatever feet had trod there.

Ronnie reported back to Sara as soon as the rookie was finished with her scene, parking the SUV at the mouth of the alley, and Sara got the chance to enjoy one of the privileges of seniority--ordering someone else to do the Dumpster diving.

"Look on the bright side," Sara told Ronnie sweetly as she stared at the four containers. "It's all cardboard."

Ronnie's groan told Sara that she knew just as well as the older CSI that other, more noxious trash had almost certainly landed in the Dumpsters along with the recycling, but Sara also knew it wouldn't be too bad compared to other scenes they had both experienced.

"There won't be anything there," Ronnie grumbled, though she was already walking back to the SUV for coveralls.

"I know, but we have to check anyway. Besides, we might get lucky." Sara looked down at the bindle she held, the chaplet rattling inside.

"Lucky how?" Ronnie asked in exasperation, sitting on the SUV's back bumper to unlace her boots. "This guy never leaves anything behind."

"Not true. Think about it, Ron. The body was still warm. Assuming he kills them elsewhere and stages the scene, and we've found nothing to say otherwise, he must have just left when the body was found. He might have panicked and dumped something rather than get caught with it."

Franklin's ordered search for the killer had come up empty, much as Sara suspected. With busy sidewalks just a minute or two away, the killer had most likely vanished into the mass of humanity before the body had even been discovered. But there was still the possibility that someone had startled him, that he'd had to cut his setup short.

And either way, they still had to check.

Ronnie stepped into the coveralls and zipped them up, resigned. "Okay, but if I have to work over tonight, I'm making you call my boyfriend and explain why I'm late."

Sara let the corner of her mouth turn up. Ronnie's boyfriend was a waiter at the Sahara, and extremely easygoing. "You do that. I'm heading back to the lab."

Ronnie gave an exaggerated sigh, and shoved her feet back into her boots.

Officer Franklin was one of the two cops standing guard over the scene, and he nodded as Sara closed the SUV's rear door. "We'll keep an eye on her."

"Thanks." Sara nodded back, pleased. Too much had happened to CSIs on site in recent years for the police to be casual about securing scenes any longer. They all knew that it was very unlikely that the chaplet killer would come back, let alone with any idea of harming Ronnie, but that didn't mean they would take the chance.

Dr. Nat had already undressed the body by the time Sara got to the morgue, and had the boy's clothes bagged and labeled. Sara opened the one containing his shirt and inhaled, but all that met her nose was the biting scent of cyanoacrylate. She winced and resealed the bag.

"What are you sniffing for?" Nat asked, snapping photos of the body.

Sara frowned. "I'm not sure. I smelled something on him when we found him, something familiar, but I couldn't place it."

The flash went off. "I didn't smell anything but Superglue, but that doesn't surprise me." Another flash. "Can you catch this guy, please? I'm getting real tired of having babies show up on my tables."

Sara took her request as it was meant, a complaint rather than a demand. "We'll do our best. Any identifying marks?"

Nat lowered the camera. "A couple of small scars, the kind of thing any seven-year-old might pick up playing. I'll give him the full rundown and send it all up to you when I'm done."

"Thanks, Nat." Sara collected the evidence bags. "Can you swab his face and throat for me? That might be the source of the odor."

"Will do." Nat was already focusing on the body again, so Sara left her to her work.

Jacquie was waiting in Fingerprints when Sara arrived. She was another bonus of working Swing, in Sara's opinion; Mandy was good, but Jacquie was better, and Sara had missed her when she'd switched shifts. "I hear you have something for me," the tech said.

"News travels fast," Sara said dryly, and handed over the one print they'd lifted from the victim's arm. "It's not good..."

Jacquie's nose wrinkled. "No, it's not." She shot Sara a look that mingled anticipation and amusement. "Fortunately, I am."

She put the print under her magnifier and studied it for a few minutes. Sara waited quietly, wanting to hear the verdict as soon as it was pronounced.

Finally Jacquie blew out a breath. "Not good," she repeated. "It actually looks like a glove print--your killer was wearing latex that got coated with oil, probably from touching skin. There's just a little ridge detail showing through."

"Enough to work with?" Sara bit her lip, suddenly aware of how much she wanted this to identify their killer.

Jacquie straightened, opening her scanner lid and placing the lifting tape on the glass. "Probably not. But I might be able to narrow the field a little."

She scanned the print and tapped at her keyboard, starting AFIS on the hunt. "This'll take a while," she added absently.

"Page me," Sara instructed, and Jacquie nodded.

The first thing Sara did with their victim's shirt was to swab it, patiently wiping every inch in search of the substance that had generated that teasing scent. Analysis turned up sugar, flavoring, food coloring, and a few crumbs of crayon, but nothing that fit her memory.

Sara was staring at the results and trying stubbornly to remember when a tap at the door made her look up at Warrick standing somberly in the opening.

"Is it that late?" Sara asked, glancing at her phone for the time.

"Yeah." Warrick came in, a photo in one hand. "I hear you got another rosary murder."

"It's a chaplet," Sara corrected. "Yeah, why?"

Warrick held out the photo. "This him?"

Her stomach sank at the sight of the studio shot. The kid was grinning happily at the camera despite his missing top teeth.

She sighed. "Yeah."

Warrick nodded grimly. "The call just came in. He was supposed to be at a sleepover party in someone's backyard. It took them hours to realize he was missing."

Sara stared down at the static images. "He was probably dead before they even noticed."

Warrick shook his head, and she gave him back the picture. "Dr. Nat had the body, you can talk to her if she's still here."

"I'll do that."

He turned towards the door, and Sara thought of something. "Oh, Warrick--can you try and find out if there was anything...wrong?"

Warrick turned back, forehead wrinkling in puzzlement. "Can you be more specific?"

Sara tapped the table absently with her fist. "Look, all the other kids--something bad was happening to them, or was about to happen. Disease, abuse, stuff like that."

Warrick put his hands on his hips, brows going up. "The killer is saving them from something?"

He'd never been slow. "It's a theory."

"Huh. Well, I'll see what I can find out."

Her phone rang, and Warrick waved and departed as Sara flipped it open and waved back. "Sidle."

"Hello dear," came Grissom's voice.

She smiled, she couldn't help it. "What's up? Don't tell me you're actually running late."

"No, I'm running north." Sara heard the hum of an engine behind his words. "I've been asked to do a consult in McGill. Apparently they've got a body with lots of bugs."

Sara snickered. "Let me guess, someone up there knows the Sheriff."

"Got it in one," Grissom said sardonically. "Something about making all state resources available. You know how these things go; this'll be a two-day trip."

"At least," Sara agreed. It was generally far easier to do at least the preliminary analysis on site, and that meant staying for a while. "I'll miss you."

"And I you." She heard his sigh, soft in her ear. "Hopefully this'll be straightforward."

"Yeah." Sara blinked, her pleasure at hearing his voice fading. "Drive safely."

"I will. I'll call you when I get here, if it's not the middle of your night."

"Call anyway," Sara said firmly.

Grissom chuckled. "All right. Love you."

She glanced around quickly, but there was no one to overhear. "Love you too." A smirk touched her lips. "I'll be dreaming of you tonight."

His groan made her smirk widen. "Don't tell me things like that while I'm driving."

"I just want you to hurry back," Sara said innocently, and Grissom laughed.

"That's a given. I'll talk to you later, honey."

"'Bye, Gil."

Still smiling, Sara closed the phone and went back to work.

* * *

Light was beginning to streak the eastern sky when Sara unlocked their front door. She smothered a yawn as she walked into the house; processing little Joseph Sanchez's murder had turned into a double, with nothing besides the fingerprint turning up. Ronnie's efforts, as she had predicted, had been fruitless. 

Sara dumped her keys in their accustomed place and wandered deeper into the house, feeling...flat. She was used to coming home to emptiness, but always with the expectation of Grissom arriving sooner or later. The knowledge that he was miles and miles away made the day to come seem uninteresting and lonely.

Idly, Sara kicked off her shoes and dug a yogurt cup out of the fridge, devouring the contents while pondering the case she'd left behind at work. Jacquie had reported in to say that AFIS had locked up and that the search would have to be rerun later, once the software was straightened out--a frustrating delay, but not unheard of.

When she went to check the messages on their phone, the only one was from Grissom.

"_Hello, honey. Just checking in, I hope you're asleep. I got here safely, but it's threatening to storm and I need to get to the body right away. I'll call you later." _

Sara listened to it twice, licking the last of the yogurt from her spoon and smiling around the utensil. _He's having fun already, I can tell._

She brushed her teeth and undressed for bed, deciding to skip the pajamas for once, and slid between the sheets. Rolling over, she pulled Grissom's pillow into her arms in lieu of the man himself--

--and froze.

_That_ was the scent she'd smelled on the body. Stronger now, and definitely familiar--the scent of Grissom's pillow. Cotton and male and the gel he used to keep his curls under control.

For a long moment Sara couldn't move, feeling her heart pounding and the cloth of the pillowcase warming against her skin. A pillowcase, a pillow, so easy and convenient a weapon to press against a small sleeping face--

_Don't be ridiculous,_ her brain said sharply. _There have to be a thousand other men in the city who use the same hair gel--more than that. Cotton pillowcases are common and cheap. All this means is that the killer happens to use the same brand of hair product. _

It made sense. Of course it did. And this was _Gil_. Her gentle, sweet lover, who would never even dream of something so sick.

Gradually Sara relaxed, letting the pillow go, scoffing at herself for thinking for even a second that _Grissom_ could be responsible for five murdered children.

But it wasn't until she pushed his pillow onto the floor that she was able to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. All others belong to me, and if you want to borrow them, you have to ask me first. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**Spoilers: through "Bull" **

**Note: this story includes the non-graphic deaths of children.**

**Believe it or not, I wrote the "home" line before it came up on the show. **

**Many, many thanks to Cincoflex and Laura27md, betas extraordinare!**

**--Sorry this is late. The site was being...uncooperative.  
**

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When Sara woke that afternoon, the revelation of the night seemed silly in the extreme. She showered, made the bed with Grissom's pillow back in its proper place, and got ready for work, eager to go back in and get Warrick's report and the AFIS results.

It wasn't until she was parking in the lab garage that the logic of her thought came clear as well.

_A pillow __**would**__ make a perfect weapon. It looks like our killer is using one. _

_Of course, the fact that he's sleeping on it makes this whole thing even sicker... _

She didn't mention the similarity to Dr. Reyes, however; that level of personal data wasn't appropriate. "I smelled an odor that reminded me of hair care products," she explained to her boss. "Our killer may be using a pillow to smother his victims."

Reyes opened her mouth to answer, and her phone rang. "Go check on your results," she said, waving a hand in dismissal as she picked up the receiver. "The chaplet cases are now on the top of your priority list."

_Finally,_ Sara thought, but the triumph was ironic. They still had so little to go on that Sara suspected she would have plenty of time left in her current shift for other cases.

"Anything?" she asked Jacquie as she swung into Fingerprints.

The tech didn't even look up from her work. "About two thousand matches," she said absently. "Find me a better print and I can narrow that down."

_That many--there's no point in spending time on those until we have more data. _Sara thanked her, getting a vague grunt in return, and went to find a free terminal to check her e-mail.

Sure enough, Warrick had sent her an informal report. _Joseph Sanchez's mom was about to remarry, _he had written. _His dad's out of the picture, and while I wasn't able to find out much first-hand, Brass says that Mom's boyfriend is bad news. According to him, word is Mom kept trying to farm Joseph out to family and friends. _

Sara winced. They'd all seen it before; less-than-stellar parents who decided that their new lives shouldn't include their own children. The lucky ones ended up with a competent relative, but there were many who weren't so fortunate.

Memory intruded: a small body soaked with stale water, one arm twisted until it snapped--a mother pretending to grieve--

She shook the old case away, and went to talk to Nat.

"The usual," the coroner reported with disgust, nursing a cup of coffee at her desk. "Traces of diphenhydramine in his stomach as well as his bloodstream, and the same light bruising around the nose and mouth. Any luck on your end?"

Sara shook her head, resting a hip on Nat's desk and stealing a lemon drop from the jar Nat kept next to her in-box. "Nope. The chaplet is just like all the others, and the print isn't enough for a real match."

Nat scowled over her mug. "The press is going to get a hold of this any day now, and boom--circus."

"I know." Sara sucked on the candy, which abruptly reminded her of the last time she'd helped Grissom wash off the reek of decomp. "We're lucky they haven't already."

"Get ready for it," Nat advised darkly. "Ms. Sanchez was in here last night to I.D. her son, and while I hate to malign someone who's just lost a kid, she was looking to aim her hysterics in whatever direction would get her the most attention." She wrinkled her nose. "Said something about calling all the TV stations, for starters."

Sara blew out a breath. "That fits with what Warrick told me about the family. Damn it!" She ran an angry hand through her hair. "Why can't we _catch_ this guy?"

"You will," Nat said with serene confidence. "Sooner or later he'll screw up, and you guys will fall on him like a ton of bricks."

"I'd settle for one brick if it would give me a lead," Sara sighed, her burst of anger fading.

Nat reached out and nudged her arm. "Go talk to Lake. She might have something for you."

"I hope so." Sara rose, taking another lemon drop. "See you later."

"I hope not!" Nat called cheerfully after her, and Sara made a rude gesture as she left, closing the door on Nat's snicker.

Ronnie was eating lunch in the breakroom, looking a little bleary-eyed, but she also wore a faint air of catlike satisfaction that Sara thought she recognized.

"Date went well, huh?" she asked as she headed for the coffeepot.

"Yemph." The rookie swallowed her mouthful. "Very well, thanks."

Sara grinned, and refrained from teasing her. _Greg she is not._ "Find anything last night?"

Ronnie grimaced. "Nothing but lots and lots of cardboard. I'm going to have nightmares about box attacks."

"The boxer rebellion?" Sara asked, then mentally smacked herself. _Gil is such a bad influence._

Ronnie, her mouth full again, didn't get a chance to reply before their phones beeped. The text message ordered them to a hit-and-run on the other side of town, and she took the rest of her sandwich along as they left.

Calculating vectors and impacts kept them occupied for the rest of the shift, and Reyes appeared at the end of it to chivvy them both out of the lab, hearing no protests. Sara didn't make much of one; after last night's double, she was tired.

The house was still echoingly empty; Grissom wasn't due back until at least the next day. Sara slept badly, but since she had the next shift off, it didn't really matter. She went for a run, did some grocery shopping, and vacuumed, filling the afternoon with mundane chores and something very close to contentment.

She'd loved her apartment, in part because it was her very own space that she could arrange and decorate at will; after years of living in other people's houses and in dorm rooms or shared apartments, it was a blessing to possess a space that belonged to her alone. Cleaning and organizing it had filled many restless hours when she couldn't sleep or settle down, and while it had been slightly cramped, every inch of it was hers.

She'd expected to have trouble sharing again. But much to her surprise, it hadn't been a problem; mainly, she supposed, because they had moved into a new space that had belonged to neither of them previously, and partly because it had plenty of room for all their things.

What she also hadn't expected was the quiet pleasure she took in maintaining that space, their mutual household. Shopping and cooking was more fun for two; she still hated scrubbing the tub, which Grissom handled anyway, but washing dishes and windows and dusting shelves brought her a warmth that even her apartment had never provided. It wasn't just her space; it was _theirs._

Theirs alone.

She kept expecting the phone to ring and announce that a new victim of the chaplet killer had been found, but it remained silent.

It was dark by the time she got around to eating supper. After the dishes were in the washer, Sara picked up the receiver and sat down on the couch, hitting the number-two speed dial. After a ring and a half, a familiar voice answered. "Sara."

She smiled. "Hi Gil. How's the case going?"

Grissom snorted softly. "Not too badly, though it would have been better if they'd managed to take proper samples before I got here."

"Ouch. Not up on entomological procedure, huh?"

She could all but see his half-shrug and the quirk of his mouth. "It's a specialized field. How was your day, sweetheart?"

Sara leaned back. "Quiet. I miss you."

Grissom sighed. "I miss you too. Next time I'm going to insist on a police helicopter to travel to the far corner of the state; I'm getting too old for these long drives."

"Nobody who could keep me this, ah, _satisfied,_ is old, Gilbert." Sara smirked. She knew he wasn't entirely serious, but it was still fun to yank his chain a little.

Grissom huffed, pretending outrage. "That's cruel, honey. How am I supposed to sleep now?"

They teased each other for a few minutes, bridging the loneliness with light words, and Sara marveled again at the difference Grissom made in her life. _I was lonely before; but I didn't know how good it felt to be __**not**__ lonely._

When she hung up, Sara was content and even a bit sleepy. Grissom's analysis was well on the way to completion and he would be heading home in the morning, which meant she would see him soon.

But sleep was not so cooperative. She slept for about five hours, fighting nightmares of small children trapped in tiny rooms, before giving up and going back downstairs to shove a packet of popcorn in the microwave. When it was done, she took it into their living room. Grissom had invested in a plasma-screen television the year before; Sara had teased him about it, but he had declared it necessary for the proper viewing of the World Series.

As Sara set her DVD of _Real Genius _into the player, she admitted privately that it _was_pretty cool.

* * *

Something warm and soft was moving over her eyelids. Sara held still, enjoying the sensation as it drifted across her temple and down her cheekbone, but by the time it reached her lips she was smiling widely. 

Grissom kissed her anyway, a messy sweet kiss that ended with her pulling him down into the bed with her. He went willingly, and Sara finally pried her eyes open to see that he was still dressed. She gave him another kiss and then looked at the clock, which told her it was 1:13 p.m.

"You're late," she said severely. "I was expecting you by eleven."

Grissom shifted so that he was looming over her. "Sorry," he said cheerfully. "There was a construction detour on 93, I had to go through Moapa."

Sara let her hands wander down and yank his shirt from his pants. "Excuses, excuses."

His own hands weren't idle either, and Sara sucked in a breath as one found its way under the sheets to her bare breast. "I'm here now," he breathed into her ear.

"Mmm," she purred, her hands going lower still. "Yes you are."

"Indubitably," Grissom agreed, and yanked the sheet away.

The resultant wrestling match had them both laughing, and was eventually declared a draw.

* * *

"Missed you," Grissom said softly, much later. He was playing pillow for her, with the weight of his arm a heavy comfort across her shoulders, and Sara rubbed her cheek against his chest. 

"It was lonely with you gone," she confessed, and heard his heart speed up a bit under her ear. His arm tightened.

"I don't ever want to come home to an empty house again," he said. "You don't know how good it made me feel, Sara, to know that someone was waiting for me at the end of my drive."

Sara smiled, knowing he could feel it. "Does that mean you're never going to let me out of the house again?" she teased, and Grissom snorted.

"As if I'd dare."

But his grip didn't loosen, and Sara damned her habit of so often making light of intimate things. She lifted her head to meet his eyes, and repeated what she'd told him months before. "Gil...you are the only home I've ever known."

His mouth twitched, his eyes glittered for an instant; then he was kissing her again, sweet and passionate and so loving that her heart ached.

"Marry me," he muttered against her lips.

Sara laughed, drawing back just enough to hold up her left hand, where his grandmother's ring sat. "This isn't evidence enough for you?"

Grissom shrugged, and caught her hand to kiss it too, right across the band, and again where the beesting had pierced her skin. "We should set a date."

"True." Sara pulled her hand away and leaned forward to his lips again, more interested in continuing what his body had begun below the rumpled sheet. "Later."

Before he could argue, she slid all the way on top of him, and whatever he'd been about to say was lost as she kissed him most thoroughly.

"Later," he agreed against her mouth, and then it was past time for such discussions.

* * *

Sara was very nearly late for work that evening, but her good mood was again ruined as soon as she got in by the news that a sixth chaplet murder had taken place. 

The body, a seven-year-old boy, had been found out off Highway 51 on a stretch of waste ground--not far, in fact, from the spot where Catherine and Mike Keppler had processed a naked young woman. Dayshift had actually caught this latest one, but so late in the day that they had merely passed it on to Swing, since Sara would have been primary anyway.

Sam Oguntayo was already with the body by the time Sara arrived. He pulled his thermometer from the corpse and looked up at Sara. "Ten hours."

She'd been asleep then, and Grissom driving home. Sara dropped to her knees and reached out to pull the chaplet free of the small hand. "Damn it."

Oguntayo didn't comment, but the flash of his eyes agreed with her.

Ronnie, who had photographed the scene, came back from a perimeter search. "Nothing," she reported tiredly.

Sara held back further swearing and bagged the chaplet. "Did you get a chance to search the medals yet?"

"Nope." Ronnie dropped into a crouch on the other side of the boy, watching Sara's hands as she sealed the bindle.

"Go back to the lab and run it now. Be thorough." Her voice was calm and cold, and Ronnie straightened hastily, almost overbalancing.

"Yes ma'am." She strode off, and Sara ignored Oguntayo's interrogative glance. Ronnie knew Sara wasn't angry at _her._

"I want this guy," Sara said softly, brushing the corpse's curly hair with the lightest touch possible.

Oguntayo grunted agreement.

It didn't help Sara's temper when the press arrived halfway through her processing of the scene. Fortunately for the coroner, he had already bagged and loaded the corpse and was able to slip away, but she had to stay and finish while the cops tried to keep the reporters behind the tape.

She'd had years of practice ignoring their shouted questions and the cameras were too far away for their flashes to interfere with her vision, but eventually she had to gather up her pitifully few evidence envelopes and run the gauntlet to her SUV. The cops couldn't help her; they had to keep the more impudent photographers from slipping past them.

Sara ducked under the tape and shouldered through the crowd, keeping her eyes facing front and letting their battering waves of words wash over and past her.

"CSI Sidle, is it true there are more than two such victims?"

"Ms. Sidle, do you have any suspects?"

"How did this victim die?"

"Ms. Sidle, what do you think of the allegations of incompetence being made against the Las Vegas lab?"

None of the questions were new, and Sara managed to get past them all. Fortunately for their microphones and the last shreds of her temper, all the reporters observed the tacit two-foot neutral zone around her vehicle and let her close the door and pull away without incident. She knew her face would be on the eleven o'clock news that night, but at least it would lack her voice.

Sara took a deep breath and let it out slowly as she reached the highway, trying to calm herself. She would have to do the same thing over again when she reached the lab, and once more when she left it, unless the Sheriff or the lab's director put forth some kind of press release and called them off.

She swore softly, bitterly, into the emptiness of the SUV. _The pressure's on, now. And all it will do is make him harder to catch. _

The drive gave her time to calm a little, however, and she shouldered her way past the small crowd of reporters into the lab in hopes that Harris or Nat could come up with something at last.

Dr. Reyes met her almost as soon as she got through the doors. "We have an I.D. on the latest victim," she said in a low voice, her eyes serious, and Sara stiffened slightly. "Gavin George."

She started down the hall towards the Trace rooms, and Sara followed, keeping pace. "This is a good thing, right?" Sara asked, wondering dismally what had gone wrong in Gavin's life to make him a target of the killer.

"Yes, but it throws another variable in the pattern. Gavin is from Moapa. He disappeared from there early this morning."

Reyes kept talking, but Sara simply couldn't understand the words. She stared at her boss, dimly realizing that her feet had stopped moving, but most of her brain was too awash in a cold shocked disbelief to pay attention.

Moapa.

Detour on 93.

Early this morning.

Grissom smiling down at her in bed, eyes brilliant with love and delight.

_Moapa._

Reyes stopped and turned back, and Sara saw the frown forming on her face as the world came back into focus. "Sara? Are you all right?"

The frown was concern. Sara sucked in a breath, struggling to get her emotions under control, and Reyes slipped a hand under Sara's near elbow. "Sara?"

"Sorry," Sara managed. "I, uh, I got dizzy for a second there."

"Did you get any sleep at all while you were off?" Reyes scolded gently, tugging Sara back towards the lobby. "Don't answer that, it's rhetorical."

Sara let herself be tugged, and allowed Reyes to push her down onto one of the padded benches that were placed for the convenience of waiting visitors, but she balked at having her head pressed down between her knees. "Julia, I'm fine. It was just a second or two."

Reyes set aside the evidence box she'd pulled from Sara's grip. "Any chance you could be pregnant?" she asked calmly.

"Not really," Sara answered, trying to keep her tone light while her mind spun over the bombshell that Reyes had unknowingly dropped. "Isn't that an invasion of privacy?"

Reyes snorted delicately. "Trust me, I'd rather invade your privacy than let HR find out you'd spent three months of pregnancy inhaling fingerprint powder. Stephen," she said over her shoulder to the receptionist at his desk, "do me a favor and run get Sara a drink of water, would you?"

The tall man nodded and rose, vanishing around the corner. Sara took a deep breath and let it out slowly, squeezing her eyes shut and reaching for calm. She needed to think about this _right now--_

Reyes' phone chimed, and she pulled it from her hip and swore mildly. "I have to take this. You sit--" she pointed at Sara, "--for at least five minutes. I'll find you later."

With an absent pat to Sara's shoulder, she hurried off, opening her phone as she went.

Sara looked around, automatically making sure that the evidence box was still right next to her ankle. At this time of night the lobby was fairly quiet, with the reporters who had plagued her barred from the lab by policy and the rather large patrolman standing guard outside the main doors. People were passing to and fro in the corridors, but the only person entering the lobby was Stephen, who had returned with a paper cone of water from the cooler around the corner.

He gave it to her with a sympathetic smile, and Sara thanked him, sipping at its coldness as he returned to his desk and donned his headset. Sara braced her elbows on her knees and looked down into the cup, one finger idly tracing its seam.

_Moapa._

Everything within her rebelled violently at the thought of Grissom as a killer, let alone a serial kidnapper and murderer of children. This was a man who usually couldn't even remember to wear his gun, for pity's sake, the most gentle lover she'd ever had, someone who abhorred violence--who loathed those who hurt children--

Her fingers tightened on the paper as Sara realized bleakly that that last qualification was not exactly in Grissom's favor just now.

She stopped short of crumpling the cone, instead tossing back the rest of the water to get it out of the way so she could put the cup down and clasp her hands together, hard.

_Gil._

He had trained her to follow the evidence, his own most unswerving guide. The evidence never lied, he would say again and again. His entire career--until recently, his _life_--was dedicated to finding out the truth, no matter how terrible or bizarre. The truth might condemn or set free or just repulse, but it was always the ultimate goal.

_Oh, God._

It might have been a prayer. Sara pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, as if the pressure would wake her from this overwhelming sensation of a bad dream. The evidence...that errant silver hair, the boy from Moapa, the ghost of cotton and of a male who used neither cologne nor aftershave...Sara repressed a sudden desire to race home and count the pillowcases.

_Moapa. Shit, __**Yakima.**_ The first case, at least the first one she'd processed--Roger had been taken from Yakima.

Which just happened to be on Grissom's route back from Seattle.

_This isn't __**possible**__. It can't be._

But the evidence stared her in the face, as if it were all laid out on the shiny floor in front of her. All the points they'd so painstakingly gathered concerning their suspect--Catholic, a forensics expert, concerned about children--it all fit.

And while Sara could swear that she'd seen no signs of this kind of insanity in Grissom, she had heard the same protestations a thousand times from shocked and disbelieving spouses, parents, friends. She knew quite well--and from older, darker personal experience--that violence and insanity could be hidden under a normal façade, sometimes for years on end.

Her stomach flipped, and for a few seconds Sara was afraid she was going to vomit, right there onto the lobby floor. She gritted her teeth and swallowed repeatedly, forcing herself to breathe deeply, absolutely refusing to lose control so thoroughly. Eventually the feeling ebbed, leaving her only slightly queasy.

_All right. Think about this logically. None of the evidence indicts Gil directly._ The hair could still be, arguably, cross-contamination; the chaplets would seem to indicate a strong faith, while Grissom claimed he was hardly Catholic at all any longer. The scent she'd caught could have been a trick of memory, and wasn't even official evidence anyway.

The two kidnapped boys, though…that was damning. The timing was just too precise. It could be coincidence, but Sara had testified at far too many trials to believe that a prosecutor wouldn't make hash of those odds.

_But it's __**Gil**__. Why would he suddenly start murdering children? _

Grissom claimed to be happier than ever before now that he was sharing his life with her, and certainly his actions seemed to support that--he was more relaxed, more open, more serene than he had been in years. People didn't tend to suddenly start killing out of the blue; there was often a trigger of some kind.

Sara grimaced, a twinge running down her arm. _Yeah. A trigger._

Having your lover kidnapped, tortured, and found nearly dead of exposure could certainly affect a man, at that.

She closed her eyes, deliberately forcing down the fury and fear, reaching for a chill calm. Ethics told her she should immediately recuse herself from the case, pass it to Reyes herself or over to Dayshift, even if she couldn't bear to mention to anyone the fact that Grissom had swung through Moapa just about when Gavin disappeared.

But she knew damn well that she would do no such thing.

_Grissom has to have an alibi for at least a couple of these murders. If I hand over the case, it'll lose momentum; I'm the primary on most of the murders, I have all the data. I have the best chance of finding the killer. _

Sara knew her logic was skewed, but she didn't care. Some things were more important than rules and regulations.

_And if you stay on the case,_ whispered the voice she was pretending not to hear, _you can prove Gil innocent before someone railroads him. _

She didn't think Ecklie would actively lead a vendetta against Grissom, but she wasn't too sure he would look for other suspects, either.

Lifting her chin, Sara rubbed her hands on her thighs and stood, scooping up the paper cup and her box of evidence. _That works. I find out what alibis he has, and I catch this sonofabitch. _

She tossed the cup into the nearest trash can, gave Stephen a nod, and headed for Trace Three.

* * *

As usual, the chaplet and the other scraps of evidence from the scene yielded no clues. Sara packed the items away and went in search of Ronnie, finding her frowning at a monitor in A/V. It didn't surprise Sara that she'd ended up there; the audiovisual techs did tend to have the best equipment, and Ronnie was certainly geek enough to appreciate it. 

"Hey Sara," she said as Sara entered, the glow of the screen making Ronnie's face appear older in the darkened room. "I've got news."

"Good news, or bad news?" Sara asked, leaning against the computer table.

Ronnie's nose twitched comically. "Depends on your point of view." She did something with the computer mouse, and an array of images sprang up on the screen--rank after rank of metal crosses. "First off, the crucifix is pretty generic. You can buy them in bulk wholesale from religious supply houses and crafting sites. Unfortunately they're pretty crudely cast, and it's a common pattern. They could have come from any one of five or six companies, most of which are foreign."

"Mm." Sara tapped her fingers on the table. "Hard to track a purchase, I take it."

Ronnie nodded. "Yeah. I mean, we could try, but..." She let the sentence trail off, and Sara knew what she meant. There were times when brute-force bludgeoning of the data could produce results, but eventually one reached a tipping point of time and resources. The crime lab had infinite reserves of neither.

"Okay. What about the medals?"

Ronnie brightened. "There is where it gets interesting. Remember how I said there was no such thing as a Saint Nicholas chaplet?"

She moved the mouse again, and new pictures took the place of the old; this time they were medals, round and oval, all stamped with the image of a man. "Every example I could find of a Saint Nicholas medal has only one loop, at the top. But to form the middle part of a chaplet, a medal has to have at least two."

The medals disappeared, replaced by a large shot of a crucifix. Ronnie made the pointer circle the medal securing the center. "See how there are two loops at the top and one on the bottom?"

Sara nodded slowly, bringing the victims' chaplets to her mind's eye. Sure enough, the chains were fastened through a loop at the top of the medal--and one at the bottom. "So you're saying..." She already knew, but she let Ronnie finish.

"The killer is most likely making his own medals, same as he's making the chaplets," the rookie said with a slight air of triumph. "It wouldn't be that hard with the right equipment."

"You're right," Sara said, smiling down at Ronnie. "He could also have someone making them for him, though, a custom job."

Ronnie deflated a little. "Yeah, that's true. Should I start looking at custom designers?"

"Local ones. Call around, see if anyone's had an odd order come in lately. Someone had to design the die for this, if nothing else." She narrowed her eyes, thinking. "See if anyone's purchased this kind of equipment, too."

Ronnie nodded, beginning to call up a business directory on the screen. "And when you're done with that," Sara added wryly, "you can start on the pawnshops."

Ronnie looked up at her, startled. "Pawnshops? What for?"

"Silver purchases." Sara's smile widened. "Think about it, Ron. If he's making the medals himself, he has to get the silver from somewhere."

Ronnie rolled her eyes in self-disgust, and Sara left her to her research.

Grissom was just as obsessive as Sara could be, but generally about different things, and Sara blessed the tendency as she went through his desk. He kept every receipt until it cleared, recorded his gas mileage, even made himself lists of chores and errands. Not that he always stuck to the latter, but it was one way to track his behavior.

Except, Sara had to admit after two hours of search, she couldn't find anything that gave him an alibi for any of the murders. In fact, there were receipts for gas that placed him in both Yakima and Moapa at roughly the times the boys disappeared.

Sara stared down at the scraps of paper, fighting an odd panic and struck with the insane desire to utterly destroy both receipts. Which was stupid, because the same proof lay in Grissom's credit card records, but the impulse was still there.

Biting her lip, Sara put everything back the way she'd found it and left Grissom's home office, closing the door behind her and trying to figure out how she was going to conceal her turmoil from him.

_It's not exactly something I can just mention over breakfast. "By the way, Gil, it turns out you're the primary suspect in the chaplet murders. Care to come down and give us a statement?" _

She threw herself down on the living room couch and stared at the ceiling, images of those wretched chaplets floating in front of her eyes. _I know him; he'll go all noble or something and insist on turning himself in, and I'm afraid that if they have him they won't look any further--_

Sara closed her eyes, absolutely refusing to look at the cold doubt that lurked at the back of her conviction.

What if the evidence was right?

* * *

She slept on the couch for a few uneasy, dream-ridden hours before stumbling upright to brush her teeth and shower. As she did so, she discovered that Nature had provided her with the perfect excuse to offer Grissom concerning her mood; her period had begun. 

_I'm always bitchy the first day or two. Combine that with the latest murder, and he won't think anything else is wrong._

Sara stood for a long time under the pounding hot water, vaguely sick at the necessity of hiding the facts from Grissom. He wasn't the only one who had promised to be more open.

Sara's growing years had taught her to guard her feelings and her tongue, to hide vulnerabilities from those who could use them against her. Grissom had often been the one chink in her armor when it came to emotion, but it had still taken her a long time to form the habit of verbally expressing her deeper feelings. Deliberate effort on both their parts had been necessary to counteract decades of learned caution.

It was bitter to be keeping secrets again.

Grissom was in the kitchen when Sara came downstairs in her robe; savory scents met her on the stairs, and she detected artichokes with bay leaves and what was probably a soufflé. He greeted her with a smile, and Sara gave him a kiss as though that morning were like any other, but when she sat down at the kitchen table and he started asking casual questions about her day she found herself just short of snapping at him.

Wincing, Sara was about to apologize, but Grissom forestalled her with a steaming mug and a kiss on the forehead. Sara stared down at the tea. "What?"

"Need some Motrin?" Grissom asked. When she switched her stare to him, he grinned. "You're not the only one who keeps track of your pills, sweetheart."

Her smile wavered into tears, and then he was holding her, stroking her hair and teasing her gently about hormones, and Sara sniffed them back and hugged him tight, wishing she never had to let go. _He can't be the killer. It's impossible._

But after they'd eaten and read together and Grissom was sound asleep, Sara found her reluctant feet taking her to the linen closet. She counted the pillowcases carefully, and frowned.

_Nine? Seven here, two on the bed--I thought we only had eight total-- _

_Pillowcases come in packs of two. _

_Oh God. _

This time it was definitely a prayer.

* * *

She left for work early, before Grissom woke. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. All others belong to me, and if you want to borrow them, you have to ask me first. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**Spoilers: through "Bull"**

**Note: this story includes the non-graphic deaths of children.**

**Again, many thanks to Cincoflex and Laura27md! **

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The media pack was still lying in wait around the lab's front doors. As Sara neared, she settled her jacket on her shoulders, lifted her chin, and picked up her pace. Fortunately, their attention was focused on the doors themselves, and she was able to get quite close before any of them recognized her.

The instant clamor of questions was all but incomprehensible, and Sara's momentum carried her right through and in the doors before they could move to hinder her.

The relative quiet of the lab was a relief, but Stephen rising from his seat behind the reception desk put Sara on alert. "Ms. Sidle, the Under-Sheriff wants to see you."

Well, she'd known _that_ was coming. "Right now?"

Stephen nodded. "In Ecklie's office."

Sara sighed. "Okay, thanks."

The receptionist sank back into his chair, and as she changed course for the director's office Sara could hear him speaking into his headset. "Yes sir, she's on her way now."

Under-Sheriff McKeen was waiting for her with Ecklie and Reyes, the latter looking grim and sympathetic, and Ecklie just looking grim. The under-sheriff's expression was faintly sorrowful, but Sara knew that the man wore emotions like ties--whatever suited the occasion. She closed the office door behind her and summoned professionalism, pushing down her turmoil about Grissom. "Sir?"

McKeen nodded, and gestured at the free chair. "Yes, CSI Sidle, thank you for stopping by. Please sit." There was no censure in his voice, and Sara noted that the three visitors' chairs were arranged to make a half-circle in front of Ecklie's desk, which McKeen had taken over. Apparently this wasn't intended to be a tribunal.

_At least on the surface._

Sara kept her thoughts to herself and took the proffered seat in the middle, nodding greetings to her superiors. The under-sheriff folded his hands on the blotter. "I'll get straight to the point. The lab is now under intense scrutiny due to the Pied Piper murders, and--"

On Sara's right, Reyes stirred. "Excuse me, the_what?"_

McKeen didn't roll his eyes, but Sara got the feeling he wanted to. "That's what the press is calling them. I'm sure you can see why. We're just fortunate that they haven't gotten a hold of the rosary angle, or the name would be even worse."

Sara forbore to correct his use of the term, and just sighed to herself. She understood why the media chose names for crimes, but that didn't make it any less irritating.

The under-sheriff continued. "Solving this case has just become the lab's first priority; credibility aside, the media attention is going to make it more difficult to do our jobs." He paused, and Sara gave him a few points for the second issue and wondered dryly if he was forgetting the children at risk or just taking his concern as read.

"First of all, I want us all on the same page. CSI Sidle, can you please give us a rundown on the case so far?"

Sara sat forward a bit, and started with a brief synopsis of each murder, then adding their theories concerning the killer. "We believe he or she is constructing their own chaplets, and is either manufacturing or commissioning the Saint Nicholas medals," she concluded.

Ecklie grimaced. "A partial print, five...chaplets, and a hair that may or may not be cross-contamination, and that's all you've got?"

Sara took firm hold of her temper. "The evidence points to a police force insider," she reminded him calmly.

"We're not suggesting that it has to be someone local," Reyes added, equally calm. "For all we know it's someone retired who 'forgot' to turn in their passwords when they quit. But this is clearly someone who knows a great deal about forensics."

"Damn it," the under-sheriff said softly. "This is just what we don't need. CSI Sidle, do you have any suspects at this point in time?"

It was surprisingly easy to lie to him, Sara discovered; she merely looked across the desk and heard her voice reply "No."

She trusted that the adrenaline surge that followed her answer was not betrayed by a flush. _I didn't know I was planning to do that. _

"All right." McKeen fiddled briefly with a pen. "Here's what we're going to do. Dr. Reyes, do you need any additional staff to help while this case is ongoing?"

Reyes glanced briefly at Sara, then back to the director. "Unfortunately the murders have not presented enough evidence to take up that much personnel time, but if it becomes, as you say, priority one, I'd like to shift CSI Sidle to it full-time." A small smile touched her lips. "Replacing her efforts really requires two CSIs, but I'll settle for one."

Sara bit back a grin at the backhanded compliment. To her left, Ecklie stirred.

"Much as I'd like to volunteer one of my people, Dayshift is working at caseload limits right now," he said, and Sara was a little surprised to hear genuine regret in his voice. "With Choi out on medical leave, we're one short as it is."

"It'll have to be Nightshift, then," the under-sheriff said, looking resigned. "I'll talk to Supervisor Grissom."

Reyes' eyes crinkled with amusement. "Why don't you just leave him a message and let me do the talking, Jeff?" she suggested. "I'll see him before you will anyway."

McKeen's answering smile was wry. "Thanks, Julia, I'd appreciate that. He'll take it better coming from you anyway." His eyes flicked towards Sara, as if wondering how she would take this implied criticism of her fiancé, but Sara wasn't upset.

_It's true, after all. He can be a pain in the ass to administration._

The under-sheriff nodded decisively and tapped the blotter. "Good. I'll set up a press conference--if we hurry, we can get it done in time for the eleven o'clock news. CSI Sidle, I want daily reports, but keep them brief; I'd rather you focus on catching this killer."

"Yes, sir," Sara acknowledged. _He's actually being halfway reasonable about this. I'm impressed. _

"You have priority one on this case. I'll make sure the lab knows it." He rose, and the rest of them followed his lead, murmuring goodbyes as they left the office. Ecklie peeled off with an anemic wave, heading for the exit.

"Conrad wants the credit of a solve," Reyes said softly, humor lingering in her voice as they started down the hall.

Sara eyed her, surprised at the supervisor's voicing a criticism of her peer. "You'd think he'd want to stay clear, given how little we've got."

"Oh, no, my dear, it's a compliment." Reyes' eyes twinkled as she looked up at Sara. "He believes you'll find the killer." She chuckled. "He must be pretty annoyed that he can't offer an investigator to our shift."

Sara had to smirk a little at that, despite her roiling emotions. "It's just as well, given their solve rate."

Reyes pursed her lips in mock admonishment. "Do you have any recommendations?" she asked. "Stokes has worked one of these cases already..."

"Yeah..." Sara felt a small bubble of panic rising in her chest. All the guys were excellent investigators. Even without the data about Grissom's trips, how long would it take for them to connect the dots? "Can I think about it?"

"Absolutely. And keep in mind that Grissom may not be able to spare your first choice," Reyes said. It was one of the reasons Sara liked her so much--Reyes never implied that Grissom let his relationship with Sara influence any decision he made as a supervisor.

"I'll get back to you." Sara looked over towards Fingerprints and saw Jacquie just walking into her domain. "There's Jacquie, I need to go talk to her."

"Shoo," Reyes said amiably.

Sara left her behind and went to rap on the open door to Fingerprints. "Hey, Jacquie."

Her quarry looked up. "Don't tell me you actually have a print."

"Okay." Sara wrinkled her nose at Jacquie's eye-roll. "Actually, I need that list of matches for the partial I gave you the other day."

"You're kidding, right? Two thousand-plus prints?" Jacquie settled onto her stool, looking incredulous.

Sara spread both hands in a helpless gesture. "Look, I have nothing with this case. I'm grasping at straws. With the list, maybe we can correlate something."

Jacquie blew out a breath. "Okay, but I'd hate to be the person signing off on _your_overtime." She reached for her mouse. "It'll take a while to print, can I just dump it in your office?"

"No, page me," Sara instructed. "Jacquie--thanks."

"It's your eyestrain," the print tech replied, gaze already fixed on the screen.

Sara let her be and retreated to her office, trying to regroup. She was grasping at straws, sure--but not the ones Jacquie thought. _That list will be almost as good as a solid alibi. That print had to be left just around time of death. If--__**when**__--Grissom's prints don't match, the rest of it won't look nearly as strong. _

She took a deep breath, then another, trying to relax and consider the potential difficulties of having a member of Graveyard on loan to Swing.

_Odds are, whoever it is will mostly be working solo. _Reyes was far more likely to make Ronnie Sara's assistant if necessary and let the more experienced CSI handle the new cases.

But if not...

_Greg,_ she decided finally, reluctantly. He was very good--_I should know, I trained him_--but he simply didn't have the experience that Nick and Warrick shared. _He's just less likely to make the connection._

Sara propped her arms on her desk and put her head in her hands, feeling vaguely sick again. It was all wrong, this whole thing, from thinking what Greg might miss to the incredible, impossible idea that Grissom could be the killer.

_There must be some explanation for that extra pillowcase. I just don't know it yet._

Her head felt like it weighed a ton. Sara pawed through her desk drawers until she found a bottle of analgesics, dry-swallowed two, and went to see what Ronnie had turned up.

* * *

She had pulled out all the chaplets and was comparing them one more time when an intern stopped by to drop off the list from Jacquie. Sara thanked him and took the printout, pulling up a stool next to the table and sitting even as she scanned the first page. 

There were 1864 matches from the criminal database and 165 from non-criminal sources such as work cards and military databases. Sara read through them all, finding nothing that fit what meager data they had, until she reached the last page. It was only partially filled; the Compliance list was only ten entries long.

One of which was "Grissom, Gilbert."

This time she really was sick, though Sara made it to a toilet before losing the scanty contents of her stomach.

Afterwards, she leaned her head back against the chilly steel of the stall divider, staring at the very boring ceiling and aware on some level that she was still clutching the wad of printout. She swallowed again and again, trying to calm her stomach, her mind racing in chaotic circles. It was crazy--the whole thing was crazy. There was no way, absolutely no way that Grissom was capable of such a thing, and yet--

Eventually her insides settled enough, and Sara rose stiffly to her feet to rinse out her mouth at the sink and try to repair the damages. She was greenly pale, Sara saw in the mirror, but there was no helping that; hopefully the lab's lighting would help conceal it.

She went back to Layout Three and her evidence, and set the printout down at the end of the row of chaplets, smoothing its pages with absent precision. There was one question paramount, now.

_Do I make this official? _

Not yet, she decided finally. _A partial that difficult is subject to error, and there's a hell of a lot of other names on the list too. I need to check for alibis, and then I can decide. _

It was spurious reasoning, Sara knew, but it was all she could bring herself to do.

And she had absolutely no idea how she was going to face Grissom that night.

* * *

As it happened, she didn't need to. All of Swing was called out to handle a multiple shooting just off the Strip, and Sara didn't make it back to the lab until after Graveyard had begun and Grissom had left on his own assignment. Sara breathed a sigh of uneasy relief, and logged in the shooting evidence to be dealt with during the next shift. 

She passed by Dr. Reyes' office on the way out, and her supervisor looked up from her computer as Sara leaned in through the doorway. "Mmm?"

"Greg Sanders," Sara said succinctly.

Reyes peered at Sara over her glasses. "All right, I'll see if Grissom can spare him. Go get some rest, Sara, you look peaky."

"I'll try." Sara threw her a vague wave and left the building, suddenly wanting the oblivion of sleep with a desperate intensity, and bitterly aware that she wasn't likely to get it.

She took a long bath when she got home, trying to relax, but even the scent of her favorite bath salts couldn't chase out the endless, wretched, circling doubt. Her heart believed that Grissom was innocent; her experience said he was guilty.

And one of the well-learned lessons of Sara's life had been that experience usually beat the heart's hopes by an unbridgeable margin.

When the water was cool, Sara dried herself off and slipped into cotton pajamas, wanting both warmth and comfort. The bed, which Grissom always made, confronted her with its tidy corners and navy spread, and Sara suddenly couldn't bear to slide between those sheets.

So she pulled back the comforter and stripped them off, replacing them with fresh ones from the linen closet. It took a major effort to keep from counting the pillowcases again, but she managed it.

The clean sheets were cool and crisp against her skin, smelling of nothing but cotton and a hint of fabric softener. Sara stared up at the ceiling, arms at her sides, rubbing her toes against the fabric pulled tautly over them, and waited for sleep.

* * *

When she woke, Sara knew by the ache in her joints that she had only slept a couple of hours, but she was at least warm. Grissom's arm was over her waist, his form solid against her back, and Sara could hear him snuffling in his sleep. 

For a long while she didn't move; she just listened to his breathing, a noise that for some time had been the most comforting sound in the world to her. In Grissom's arms she had slept more, it seemed, than at any time previous; part of her thought it silly that the cure should be so simple, but the rest of her was just grateful.

Now she was awake again, her muscles relaxed but her mind in turmoil. In the quiet bubble of time before her day began, Sara wondered why her suspicions didn't make her want to push his sleeping body away.

Instead, all she wanted to do was roll over against his chest and have him wake, to feel his hands soothing her as though this nightmare were just a bad dream. Except…

Sara bit her lip against the prickle of tears, and slid carefully out of bed.

A long, hard run would have been her distraction of choice, but it was too hot. Sara went instead to the gym, burning a couple of hours in kickboxing and weights; letting her attention narrow to the next sequence of blows, the next set of reps.

Her entire body was trembly when she left the facility, and she was soaked with sweat, but Sara felt hardened, more ready to face Grissom without giving anything away.

He was eating breakfast when she got home, and looked up guiltily when she walked in; the smell of bacon met her nose and she almost laughed. Grissom still felt bad about eating meat in front of her, even though she'd told him repeatedly that he could do whatever he liked as long as he didn't ask her to cook it or eat it.

Shaking her head, Sara grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and headed for the stairs. At the table, Grissom was hastily assembling a sandwich from his toast and egg and bacon--the better to conceal the meat, she supposed.

"I won't ask for a kiss," he said as she passed, waving the sandwich and smiling ruefully.

Sara shrugged. "'M stinky," she mumbled around a mouthful of apple.

Grissom's eyes crinkled, and she was abruptly reminded of the day he'd gotten back from Massachusetts, and how her reek had not deterred him in the least; propriety had, but only by a very slight margin.

"I'm glad you're back," he called after her as she started up the stairs. "I was beginning to think you were avoiding me."

Sara flinched, and swallowed her bite. _That's because I am._

She made a vague noise back down at him and headed for the master bath, grateful that this week he was not likely to come in and join her in it. Her period always made her abdomen tender, and the rest of her less inclined for anything rambunctious.

She made the most of a long, hot shower; she could have stayed longer at the gym by using its bathing facilities, but she knew far too much about what germs were floating around such a place to feel comfortable even taking off her shoes. The discomfort of driving home sweaty was outweighed by the private, high-pressure, _clean_ shower waiting for her at the end of the trip.

Drying and styling her hair took up more time, and when Sara finally emerged she found Grissom dressed and on the point of leaving. "Errands," he explained cheerfully. "When's your next night off? I'd like to coordinate us if I can."

"Um...I need to check the schedule," Sara lied. "Things are getting kind of shifted around."

Grissom nodded. "So I heard, and yes, Swing can have Greg for a little while. He's delighted with the chance to work with you again."

She couldn't help smiling at that. Greg was, in his own inimitable way, a friend worth having.

Grissom leaned forward and kissed her briefly. "I brushed my teeth," he explained, eyes twinkling. "I'll see you tonight?"

Sara opened her mouth to agree, and then felt ice sliding up her spine.

_What if there's another murder tonight? _

"I'll go with you," she said brightly. "You could use some company, right?"

He blinked, looking taken aback. "Well, sure...but honey, I'm just going to pick up a few things, nothing interesting..."

Sara strode across the room to grab her purse. "We haven't seen much of each other lately," she reminded him. _Don't argue, Gil, __**please**__ don't argue..._

"Okay." He held the door for her, still appearing slightly baffled but not unwilling. Sara settled in the passenger seat of his Mercedes and forced her face into an expression of relaxed pleasure, as though she were just coming along for the ride.

The first stops on Grissom's list were the dry cleaner's and the post office, neither of which took long; the third was the Costa Mesa Mall for new shoes.

That gave Sara a little breathing space; Grissom knew what he wanted, so she was able to drift around the women's section of the store pretending to examine running shoes while he tried on loafers. Choice approved and purchased, they made their way out of the mall--with a detour past the popcorn vendor for Grissom--and went to the pet store for crickets.

Sara went immediately to see the big white cockatoo that seemed to like her--at least, it always flared its crest and started head-bobbing when it saw her. She talked to it for a few minutes before finding Grissom bent over a tank of young iguanas.

"What do you think?" he asked, pursing his lips.

Sara shook her head. "You _know_ how big those things get, Gil."

"It takes years," he returned in mild protest, crouching to peer directly through the glass. The three lizards returned unblinking, beady stares.

"Yes, but after the ball python you said to remind you, nothing larger than you can pick up with one hand." Sara crossed her arms over her chest, and for an instant it was almost normal.

Almost.

Grissom straightened with an exaggerated sigh. "So I did."

They managed to keep busy until it was almost time for Sara to go to work. Grissom dropped her off at the lab and she went inside, running calculations in her head. _Four hours until his shift starts, and he's almost always early. That's not enough time to...it's not enough time._

Sara heard Ronnie laughing in the breakroom as she neared it, and sure enough, Greg was sitting opposite the rookie, grinning as he spoke. "I'm totally serious, there was trash everywhere, and--"

"Telling stories, Greg?" Sara asked, and tried to look stern as he turned in his chair, but she knew she wasn't succeeding. Ronnie's giggles trailed off.

"Sara!" Greg sprang up and enveloped her in a hug, and Sara returned it, suddenly pathetically grateful for such a simple affection. "I haven't seen you in, like, weeks!"

Sara scoffed and let him go. "More like three days. Say you brought some of your coffee with you and I'll forget that you were telling that story."

Greg snickered, and with reason; Sara still remembered the shift when, thanks to the morning sun, a large bottle of homebrew had exploded in the trash can she'd just opened. Greg and Warrick had nearly strangled on their own laughter at the sight, though to their credit they'd first made sure she wasn't bleeding.

"Would I come to your shift without bearing gifts?" Greg asked with comic rhetoric. "Only the best for you, most beauteous of CSIs."

Sara poured herself a cup of the fresh java, whose scent did indeed indicate its origins, and inhaled the steam with pleasure. "Don't let Catherine hear you."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Catherine is still one of the hottest things in the lab, but she can't--"

Sara held up a hand to halt his comment. "Thank you, Greg, I get the point." She grinned at him, feeling her spirits lift slightly.

He smirked back and collapsed into his chair, sprawling as though someone had cut his strings. Ronnie's eyes were a trifle wide, and Sara knew the younger woman had taken in every word.

"Remind me to tell you about the Silly Putty incident," Sara told her, doctoring the coffee, and Greg groaned.

"C'mon, Sara, you know that was a complete coincidence--"

The arrival of Dr. Reyes cut off his sentence, and Greg straightened, pulling together a professional attitude. "Good evening, everyone," the supervisor greeted them. "Mr. Sanders, thank you for agreeing to help us out for a little while."

"I'm glad to be here," Greg answered, properly sober. Reyes smiled.

"We're going to put you to work right away. Ronnie, as of tonight you are now secondary on Sara's chaplet murders." Ronnie's eyes got big again, but Reyes didn't pause. "By order of Under-Sheriff McKeen, that case is now our shift's highest priority. Which means--" She glanced at Greg. "--You'll be catching most of the rest."

The corners of Greg's mouth curled up; he was silent, but Sara knew what he wasn't saying--that he loved a challenge.

"Sara--" Reyes began, but before she could go on Vartann stuck his head into the room.

"Sidle--got another one," he said urgently.

All the humor fled. Sara felt her stomach flip, and she glanced across the table at Ronnie; the two of them rose. _This could be his alibi, I was with him all afternoon. _Sara looked belatedly at Reyes, but the supervisor merely waved them out. "Go," she said grimly.

They went.

**  
**


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. All others belong to me, and if you want to borrow them, you have to ask me first. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**Spoilers: through "Bull"**

**Note: this story includes the non-graphic deaths of children.**

**Oh, come on...don't you trust me? (evil grin) **

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The three-year-old girl was dirty and had an untreated cleft palate. She was found behind a derelict house, on what remained of a patio--chaplet in hand.

Ronnie took photos in solemn silence, and Sara crouched by the body, waiting as Oguntayo examined it. "Twenty-six hours, maybe," he grunted.

Sara swayed, and had to brace herself with one hand against the gritty cement. Twenty-six hours before, she had gone to work early, leaving Grissom asleep at home.

Alone.

_Shit._

Sara reminded herself sternly that just because she couldn't prove Grissom's whereabouts at the time, she had no evidence that he was behind this murder. Oguntayo gave her a long look, but when she glared back he sniffed and unfolded a body bag. _Don't lose it now, Sidle, if you flip out in public someone's going to wonder __**why**_

They processed. As ever, there was nothing definitive at the scene. With the murders now in the news, Sara was a little surprised that this one had taken so long to be found, but its dump location behind the house was not exactly obvious.

"Sara?" Ronnie said as they were packing up. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure." Sara made a mental note to pick up more bindles.

Ronnie bit her lip. "Do you think there are other dead kids we haven't found yet?"

Sara set her kit down in the back of the SUV, brows rising. A very valid question; not one she'd expected from a rookie. "That's a good question, Ronnie, and yes, it's possible. Less likely at this point, but possible. The killer has not made any real effort to hide the bodies, but he hasn't tried to put them on display, either."

Ronnie straightened, a slight flush of pride tingeing her cheeks. Sara gave her a small smile. "Unfortunately, we can't go out looking for them, given that there's no discernable pattern in the body dumps."

"Yeah," Ronnie sighed. "Do people manage to, um, hide them a lot?"

Sara shut the SUV's rear door with a slam. "More often than you might think, but then there's plenty of places in this town where one more smell won't be noticeable." She waved a hand at the horizon. "And many more out there where a body won't be found before nature's taken care of it."

She didn't shiver at the memory of her own near-death, but Ronnie looked sorry to have brought up the subject. They climbed into the vehicle, and Sara went on, taking comfort in the lecture. "The thing is, when people hide bodies they usually don't have any idea how hard it is to do, long-term. The smell alone often gives it away."

Storage lockers, cement, tar, boxes--she felt her lips curving up at the memory of drywall. "And even when someone gets away with it for a while, change--like construction--can bring a corpse to light."

"Right." Ronnie grinned, and Sara knew she was remembering the Lee George case, a decades-old murder brought to light by the building of a new casino. "Is there any way to get rid of a body completely? Like, so it can't be traced?"

"Sure. Dissolve it in acid, sink it out in the ocean where it'll get eaten...stuff like that." Sara started the engine and backed the SUV out of the driveway. "But there's nothing that's absolutely foolproof. And even with those methods, a killer runs the risk of being caught with the body before it's disposed of." She shrugged. "Lucky for us."

"Did you ever work a case where you knew who did it but couldn't prove it?"

Sara kept her eyes on the road, her momentarily light mood fading. "Yeah."

The sting of Grissom's confession during the Lurie case had faded, but now his words seem to hold some darker meaning. She closed her mouth, and Ronnie seemed to sense her change in mood, and asked nothing more.

Dr. Nat's expression was grim when Sara walked into the morgue, and Sara merely waved hello. The coroner frowned at her. "Three years old and no one's done a thing about her palate," Nat said, anger tingeing her voice.

Sara looked down at the little malnourished body. "No health insurance," she guessed, weary.

"Probably." Nat sighed. "Her clothes are over there." She waved at the paper bags sitting on one counter. "I didn't see anything probative this time."

Sara gathered them up. "Ronnie's checking the missing children database, we might get lucky."

"Yeah." Nat drew a gloved finger down the little girl's cheek, a sad, gentle gesture. "Let me know."

Sara took the bags to Trace and started examining them without any hope of finding something. But almost immediately she found fibers on the back of the child's grubby shirt--short ones that didn't show up until she used lifting tape. Heartbeat quickening with excitement and worry, Sara put them under the microscope.

_Black...trilobal. These are from a vehicle._

She raised her head, staring across the room at nothing. Was this finally the error they'd been waiting for? Had the killer transported his victim in a car?

Moving with exquisite care, Sara took the fibers from under the microscope and carried them out of the room.

Mikhail Dorobovich wasn't quite the expert that Hodges was, but he was good...and he was a lot easier to get along with. At the sight of Sara, he immediately set aside his current project and heaved his oversized frame off his stool. "The boss said anything you bring in is top priority," he explained, a hint of accent in his words though his syntax was completely American. "What've you got?"

"Car fibers." Sara handed him the evidence. "Mind if I hang around while you run them?"

"No problem." Dorobovich climbed back onto his stool and adjusted his microscope, instantly absorbed in the task. Sara leaned against the table and set herself to wait.

It didn't take long before Dorobovich was moving to his computer terminal to call up a search, and moments later he turned back to Sara, gaze mild behind his glasses. "Mercedes, black interior, 2002 or later."

This time it wasn't even a shock, just another weight wrapping around her skull. Sara nodded. "Thank you."

If Dorobovich sensed that there was something wrong, he didn't mention it, merely handing her back the evidence. "Y'welcome."

Sara retreated to her tiny office. She needed time to think, so she closed the door and left the lights off, preferring the dimness.

_As if the dark could hide the evidence._

She leaned back in her chair and stared blindly upwards. _Lots of people have late-model black Mercedes, especially in this town. There's nothing to prove that it came from Gil's car in particular. _

Even after her ordeal under the overturned car, Sara had never been particularly claustrophobic, but she was beginning to feel trapped, as though the accumulating evidence was pressing on the walls of her office, threatening to break in. What her heart knew and what her head knew clamored at each other inside her skull, leaving no room for any other thought.

_But I'm not sure any more that it isn't his car. _

The bleak statement made her stomach hurt. On impulse Sara picked up the phone, knowing that Grissom would be getting ready to leave the house.

"Hello, sweetheart." His cheerful voice had her swallowing. "What's up?"

"I'm just taking a break, and I thought of something that's been bugging me but I keep forgetting to ask you about," Sara answered, struggling to keep her voice light. "Did you get another set of pillowcases? I keep coming up with an extra."

"Hm? Oh," Grissom answered, sounding slightly distracted, and Sara heard the snap of the latches on his briefcase. "Yeah, I needed one for an experiment, so I bought a set and threw the extra in the linen closet."

"Oh, okay." Her hands were sweating, Sara realized vaguely. "What was the experiment?"

"Blood spatter. Hey, I hate to cut you off, but I need to get going. See you later?"

"Sure," Sara said, and let him say goodbye before hanging up the phone and returning her gaze to the seam where the wall met the ceiling.

_Blood spatter._

Horror rose slowly to swamp her as Sara realized that she wasn't sure she believed him.

* * *

Sara found Ronnie waiting in Trace Three, lit with eagerness. "What's up?" Sara asked. 

Ronnie grinned. "I found something!"

She really did remind Sara of Greg at times; an earlier Greg, excited enough to temporarily forget his geekish cool. "Yes?"

Ronnie held out another piece of lifting tape. "You were gone when I got here, so I started to work on the other things, I hope that was all right, anyway, there was a print on the chaplet--"

Sara took the tape, blinking down at the clear partial. An unpleasant tingle ran up her spine at the sight of it. "Really?"

"Yeah, right on the back of the medal." Ronnie bounced lightly on her toes. "I was going to call you, but it was a nice easy surface, so I did it myself--it's okay, right?"

_This is...unlikely._ Such a good print, after so many ultra-careful scenes? Yet there it was. _Evidence._For Grissom, or against him?

Or something else entirely? Sara repressed the impulse to ask Ronnie if she might have inadvertently left the print herself; the rookie might still be relatively new to the work, but Sara had already noted that she was scrupulous about wearing gloves. Unlike Greg, she never had to be reminded to don them.

_This can't be Gil's. He'd never make a mistake like this. Not that he can do this kind of thing anyway--but--_

"It's very good," Sara said slowly, pushing out of the frantic tangle of thought. "This is good work, Ronnie."

Ronnie blew out an exaggerated breath of relief. "Whew, I was afraid you'd be mad."

Sara tore her eyes from the print and looked up at her charge, marshalling her thoughts. "You made the right decision. You're proficient at printing now, and this was well within your capabilities."

Ronnie grinned again, a bright exalted look, and Sara smiled slightly despite her churning thoughts. "There's nothing wrong in asking for permission or help if you come up against something you don't know how to do, remember--in fact, that's protocol. But in this case you were right."

Ronnie nodded. "Can we run it?"

Sara crushed the impulse to delay. "Absolutely." The two of them left the room for Fingerprints, Ronnie halting halfway down the corridor.

"Um--can I catch up?"

"Sure," Sara said, and Ronnie hurried off toward the ladies' room.

Jacquie was in her domain, leaning back in her chair and working on a sudoku puzzle. "Tell me you have something," she said as Sara entered. "If it gets any slower around here tonight I'm going to fall asleep."

Sara marshaled a calm expression. "Print from the latest chaplet murder--exciting enough?" She handed over the tape, and Jacquie sat up straight, focus sharpening as she set her puzzle aside.

"_Nice_ one," she approved, immediately sliding her viewer over for examination. "Very clear--probably a thumb print. Did you do this?"

"No, it's Ronnie Lake's." Sara folded her arms and held her impatience in check. The smart investigator did not hurry Jacquie.

"Thought so. You don't usually use this powder."

"You can tell who did the printing?" Sara asked, surprised.

"A lot of the time, yeah." Jacquie looked up from the magnifier, smirking. "I see enough of the things, you think I don't catch differences in style?"

She lifted the scanner lid and laid the print on the glass, punching keys to start the scan. "Nice one," she repeated as the image slowly appeared on the screen.

With another rattle of keys, she began the search. Sara knew it might take a while, but she couldn't bring herself to leave--

--The machine beeped.

Jacquie leaned forward, peering at the screen, and then her forehead wrinkled as she frowned. "Compliance match. Sara, is Grissom working with you on this case?"

Sara felt herself become very still, as though every atom in her body had ceased to vibrate while the world went on around her. From somewhere below her breastbone, an icy cold began to spread.

"No," she heard herself say. "He's not."

Jacquie turned her head to look at Sara, and Sara could see various emotions whipcracking across her face--puzzlement, disbelief, a horrified realization. "Sh--"

Sara held up a hand, cutting off the print tech's words. "This case is now confidential." Her voice sounded as cold as her insides felt. "I'm going straight to Dr. Reyes with this, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't discuss this with anyone else."

Hurt flickered for an instant in Jacquie's eyes at the request, but was replaced with comprehension. "Right." She tapped out a quick sequence, and the printer next to her terminal spit out the search results.

Sara held out her hand, and Jacquie gave her the printout. "CSI Lake will be by in a few minutes," Sara said, taking refuge in absurd formality. "Will you please go with her and observe as she returns the evidence to the locker?" Ronnie had no connection to Grissom, but it never hurt to have another witness to the integrity of the evidence. And Sara didn't want Ronnie's budding career to be hurt by this.

"Of course." Jacquie opened the scanner and retrieved the print, placing it carefully next to her keyboard. "What should I tell her?"

"Tell her...tell her there was a compliance match--not her--and that Dr. Reyes will explain it."

"All right." The tech's eyes were full of sympathy, and Sara couldn't bear to meet them.

"Thanks, Jacquie," she said, her voice squeaking off the end of the last word, and left.

Dr. Reyes' door was open, and Sara could see her through the opening, glasses sliding down her nose as she bent over a file. Without knocking, Sara walked in and closed the door behind her.

There was curiosity on Reyes' face when she looked up. "Sara? What is it?"

She would have preferred to stay standing, but all of a sudden Sara wasn't sure her knees would carry her through the conversation. She sat down. "I need to recuse myself from this case."

Very slowly, Reyes put down her pen, then removed her glasses and let them dangle, her eyes bright and sober. "Please explain."

Sara held out the paper that Jacquie had given her. Reyes took it, her eyes flicking quickly over the data, a frown growing between her brows before she looked back up to Sara.

"This is...damning," she said slowly. "Is there any...other evidence?"

Sara swallowed. "Yes."

She listed the errant hair, the fibers, the partial print; she left out the pillowcases, since that data was based only on her sense of smell. But she had to mention Grissom's lack of alibis.

When she was through, Reyes let out a long, long breath, looking down at the printout Sara had handed her before setting it aside and turning her gaze back to Sara. "Thank you for telling me. I know this is difficult."

Only the knowledge that Reyes was sincere kept Sara from saying something rude. "Yeah."

Reyes sighed and rubbed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose as if to ward off an incipient headache. "I assume...that you want to talk to Dr. Grissom?"

_Before his arrest,_ was the unspoken addition. Sara swallowed. "Yes."

Reyes nodded once, and glanced at her watch. "It's half an hour until shift change. He's probably in his office by now." She picked up her phone, punching in a few numbers. "Grissom? It's Julia. Are you on your way out the door, or can you spare a few minutes?"

She paused, then "Thank you. I'm sending someone over." Reyes hung up the phone. "I have to brief Vartann; I can give you about twenty minutes, max."

Sara jerked her head in a nod. "Thank you."

Reyes' mouth crimped, a sorrowful look. She didn't say anything about trust, but Sara knew she didn't have to. "Go."

Grissom was in much the same position as Reyes had been, except for the piles of papers and files on his desk. He looked up as Sara came in, a smile growing. "Julia sent you? What's up?"

Sara locked the door behind her and busied herself closing the blinds. When she made herself look back, Grissom's smile had disappeared, replaced with concern. "Sara?"

She steeled herself. "Can you come out here?"

Grissom cocked his head in his thinking pose, then rose and did as she asked, pulling out the extra chair he kept for guests and putting it opposite the one already waiting in front of his desk. "Sit down and tell me what's wrong."

Sara made her knees bend and perched on the edge of her seat, her fists clenched and resting on her thighs. Grissom took the other chair and waited for her to speak.

She had to swallow twice before she could begin. "My case...you haven't asked me about it recently."

"It was pretty clear that you didn't want to talk about it," Grissom said, brows rising encouragingly. "Has something happened?"

Sara knew from his tightening posture that if she gave him the least sign he would lean forward and take her hand, so she held every muscle in rigid check. "Yeah. We have a suspect."

Iron control kept her voice steady as she laid out all the evidence, from the most circumstantial up to the damning fingerprints, knowing that his nimble mind would make the connections. His face gradually lost its expression as Sara outlined the picture of their killer, the pattern they'd found behind the murders.

Eventually she ran out of words, and for a moment they both sat silent, Sara staring at the linoleum of the floor and feeling his gaze burn against her skin.

"Have you reported your conclusions?" Grissom asked at last, his voice quiet and cool.

Sara looked up, but no further than his chest. "Yes. Vartann will be here any minute."

Grissom stood, stiffly, and walked over to her, dropping into a crouch and taking her hands in his. His fingers were warm on hers. "Do you believe I did this, Sara?"

Her eyes jerked up to his, and there was sorrow in his gaze. Sara opened her mouth, and nothing came out.

Someone knocked on the door, rattling it in its frame. "Grissom?" Vartann called. "Open the door."

Grissom let her hands go and straightened. "Open it," he said calmly.

Her vision was blurring, and it was making her angry. Sara rose and went to unlock the door, swinging it wide to reveal Vartann and an officer in uniform, both of them exceedingly grim. They stepped inside, keeping their voices low, though Sara knew it would all be useless the minute Grissom left his office in cuffs. "Gil Grissom, you are under arrest for murder. You have the right to remain silent--"

Vartann spoke the Miranda rights carefully. Grissom never looked away from Sara, even as he acknowledged the recital and put his hands behind his back for the handcuffs. Sara folded her arms tightly, each hand gripping the opposite elbow, and couldn't force herself to meet his eyes.

But as Vartann led him past, the sound of her name made her look up. It hurt to see his face, hurt her worse than anything ever had, but he gave her a small twitch of a smile. "Follow the evidence," he told her softly.

And then they were through the door, Grissom unresisting. Sara watched them go, the cops on either side of the man with the bowlegged gait, his hands relaxed behind his back. Faces were appearing at all the windows, heads popping out of doorways, murmurs of surprise and disbelief and speculation spreading at the sight of the Nightshift supervisor being led away in custody.

Sara's phone chimed. She almost didn't answer it, but finally pulled it from her belt with a sense of weary duty, and read Reyes' name in the window. She flipped it open. "Sidle."

"Is it done?" Reyes asked, her voice tinny in Sara's ear.

"Yeah." The three figures were gone now, around the corner and away towards the front door.

"Go home," Reyes ordered. "If you need a day or two, take it. This will all need sorting out anyway, and when we need you we'll call."

"Yeah." Sara closed her phone without waiting for an acknowledgement, and headed for her office almost on automatic pilot. Fortunately, no one spoke to her...or if they did, she didn't hear them.

She gathered her things and drove home without thinking about either, and it wasn't until she dropped her keys on the counter that the silence of the house hit her like a slap.

_I did this. _

Guilty or not, she had just destroyed Grissom's life with one blow. And now that the evidence was out of her hands, Sara found that there was nothing to fill the hole inside her.

She kicked off her shoes and went upstairs to their bedroom, lying down on the tidy comforter and hugging her pillow against her chest. In the cool air of the bedroom there were no answers and no absolution.

Her lover was under arrest as a murderer.

She was his accuser.

All their life together seemed a bright and lovely dream, fading fast now that she was awake. Nothing left but ashes, bitter on her tongue.

Sara clutched the pillow and stared into the night, waiting for dawn.

But she did not cry.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. All others belong to me, and if you want to borrow them, you have to ask me first. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**Spoilers: through "Bull" **

**Note: this story includes the non-graphic deaths of children.**

**Again, many humble thanks to Cincoflex and Laura27md for keeping me on the straight and narrow.**

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The jackals were back.

Sara rested her wrists on the top of her steering wheel and gazed out through the windshield. There were at least seven or eight members of the press gathered around the lab doors, waiting for someone to come in or go out. She couldn't blame them for lying in wait; the news that one of the lab's own stood accused of the latest string of serial murders was an extraordinarily juicy tidbit in a city glutted with outrages and celebrities.

Not to mention the fact that the criminalist handling the investigation just happened to be the suspect's fiancée...

Her head weighed a ton.

Sara steeled herself and got out of her car, pushing up her sunglasses against the noon light. Despite Reyes' words, it had only taken the lab's top brass about twelve hours to call her in for a debriefing, and she knew it was going to be messy.

She closed the car door and headed for the lab with a long stride, hoping to get through the small mob as efficiently as she had before, but this time they saw her coming. They swept towards her, a noisy, flashing wave, thrusting mikes at her face and yelling questions that were nothing but a jumble of sound and her name. Sara put her head down and bulled forward, not even bothering to reply "no comment" and trying to restrain the urge to kick a few of them out of her way.

Suddenly the crowd parted before a couple of burly cops who closed around her and all but carried Sara forward and through the doors, leaving the reporters outside. One of the patrolmen halted to make sure that none of the reporters came in, while the other--Stevens, she thought his name was--escorted her into the lobby with one hand lightly on her elbow.

"Next time, call from the car," he said, and she looked up to see a sort of grim sympathy on his face. "We'll come out and escort you in."

Unable to form a reply, Sara nodded.

The lab held a certain indefinable hush, not at all its usual Dayshift busy hum; clearly everyone was aware of what had happened the night before. There was no one at the front desk at just that moment--even receptionists had to take bathroom breaks, Sara guessed--but as she walked towards Ecklie's office she could feel eyes following her in the various labs and offices. It was like the first time she'd come back after her kidnapping, only worse.

And there was nothing to do but get through it.

Ecklie's office was crowded with its owner, Under-Sheriff McKeen, Reyes, and--somewhat to Sara's surprise--Sheriff Burdick himself. All looked grave, though Reyes also seemed worried. Ecklie, oddly enough, had an edge of exasperation.

"CSI Sidle, please sit down," Burdick said, waving her to one of the chairs in a circle in front of Ecklie's desk. No thanks for coming in; but then, she hadn't expected any. She sat, and so did everyone else.

"First off, I want to apologize for the cramped quarters, but I want this meeting to remain absolutely confidential," Burdick began. "CSI Sidle, I realize you have recused yourself from this case--which is exactly what you should have done--but I need you to go over the particulars one more time, so that we all understand them."

"Do you want your notes?" Reyes broke in, and some small part of Sara appreciated the unspoken support in her boss' glance.

But the data were engraved on her mind's eye, and Sara feared that she would never be able to get rid of them. "No."

Taking a deep breath, she began to explain the case for the third time in twenty-four hours. It was easier this time, but the dry recital of facts still made her sick to her stomach.

When she had finished, the four of them asked her various questions about processing and the scenes themselves; more to clarify things, she thought, than because they doubted her.

_Besides, it's all in my reports, with Ronnie and Oguntayo and Nat to corroborate. This is a formality. _

McKeen pinched his lower lip between thumb and forefinger. "It's still fairly circumstantial," he said thoughtfully.

Ecklie, whose exasperation had faded during Sara's recital but had not disappeared, sighed. "I find this all very hard to believe. Not your work, Sidle--" He waved a dismissing hand. "--But the implications. Gil Grissom is a brilliant, if eccentric, investigator, and I find him as annoying as anyone else, but a murderer...?"

Sara blinked, taken aback by support from this unexpected quarter.

Burdick shook his head. "It does seem unlikely, but stranger things have happened."

The platitude made Sara's jaw clench. Burdick seemed bemused by the evidence of Grissom's guilt, but not upset; Sara supposed bitterly that to him Grissom was just one more playing piece.

"This reflects very badly on the lab," McKeen sighed. "Not to mention the loss of his grants and so forth."

"He hasn't yet been arraigned, yet alone tried," Reyes pointed out quietly. "Most of the evidence is, as you say, circumstantial, and the D.A. may not want to go up against a man of Grissom's reputation and probity."

"She'll have to," Burdick said sourly. "The publicity's too high on this one."

"Be that as it may--" Reyes started, but Ecklie cut in, his eyes narrowing.

"Gentlemen, Dr. Reyes, if I may--do we have any further questions for CSI Sidle?"

McKeen and Burdick collected themselves, and Sara saw temper flashing in Reyes' eyes, but the glance Ecklie shot Sara's way was faintly sympathetic, surprising her yet again.

"No, not at this time," Burdick said, echoed by McKeen's headshake. "Thank you, Ms. Sidle. You can go, and I strongly suggest you take a few days off--paid leave, of course."

"Please remain local," McKeen added. "We may have more questions as the case progresses."

Sara managed to keep from screaming at him, and rose. Reyes stood as well. "I need a minute to speak with CSI Sidle," she told the others, not waiting for permission before taking Sara's arm and guiding her out of the office.

The corridor was empty; someone was looking their way from an office down the hall, but Reyes' glare made the face disappear quickly. "Congratulations on keeping your temper," she said softly, glancing back to make sure the door had closed behind them. "I'm having trouble with mine."

Sara let out a shaky breath, Reyes' words sapping some of her anger but bringing her closer to some other loss of control. "Yelling at them wouldn't help my career any, I guess."

Reyes glanced at her sharply. "Probably not, no." She hesitated. "Have you seen Grissom since his arrest?"

"...No." His lawyer had called twice, but Sara had not picked up the phone, only listening to the voice mails afterwards. The man's formal words and cool tone had given no hint of pleading, but the mere fact that Grissom had asked to see her made her heart ache unbearably.

Reyes sighed. "You can, you know; it's somewhat irregular, but since you're no longer working the case, your interest is strictly personal."

"I know." Sara looked away.

Reyes patted her arm. "All right. I have to get back in there, but if you need anything, or if you think of anything--case-related or not--give me a call at any time, you understand?"

Sara nodded distantly. Under other circumstances, she would have been touched by her boss' concern. "Okay."

Reyes sighed again, then let her go. "It's not your fault, Sara. Remember that."

Opening the door, she slipped back into Ecklie's office, from which spilled rising male voices. The closing door cut them off and left Sara in an empty hallway.

Her feet began to move before she thought about it, carrying her not towards the front doors but deeper into the building. Back when Sara had first arrived at the lab, she had been initiated into a small secret of the building by some of the other smokers; the back fire door that could be jimmied so that it could open without triggering an alarm.

She hadn't smoked in years, but she remembered the trick. The back parking lot looked odd; she was used to seeing it under night skies and yellow lights, not half-filled with vehicles and basking concretely in the sun. Sara let the door slip shut behind her and headed left.

It was a long walk around the building to where her car was parked, but it was infinitely preferable to running the gauntlet of press again, even with the two officers to guard her.

Though where she was going to go, Sara didn't know.

* * *

The phone rang several times during the long, quiet afternoon. Sara didn't budge from her spot on the couch, only staring blankly at the ceiling as the rings echoed through the main room and doing her very best to think about nothing at all. But eventually she forced herself upright to listen to the voicemail. 

Three calls from reporters, asking for statements; one from Catherine, demanding an explanation; one each from Nick and Warrick, awkwardly asking if Sara was okay; and two more from Grissom's lawyer.

The mere quiet persistence of the latter told her how much Grissom wanted to see her, but guilt kept Sara on the sofa.

Guilt...and fear.

_He should hate me for what I've done. _

And she wasn't sure what would be worse: Grissom angry and accusing, or that eerie calm he'd displayed when she'd told him what she'd found.

As the afternoon waned into evening, Sara finally made herself get up, going into the kitchen to make herself some tea on the vague realization that she was getting dehydrated. Distracted and tired, she picked up the phone out of sheer habit when it rang again, only realizing what she'd done when she spoke into the receiver. "Hello?"

"Sara--" It was Brass, sounding annoyed. "I know you don't want to talk to anyone right now, but I'm being blackmailed."

Sara frowned down at the kettle as she filled it. "You're what?"

She heard a mutter that seemed distant from the receiver, and the small indistinct noises of a cellphone being moved, and then her name again.

In Grissom's voice.

"Don't hang up," he said quickly, a touch of pleading in his voice. "Please, Sara, just listen."

Her throat was too dry to answer, but Grissom seemed to take that as permission to continue. "This isn't your fault--you followed the evidence. Sara, do you understand me?"

The kettle was a fat and pleasing shape, resting squarely on the burner, implying the comfort of hot drinks and all that went with them--cocoa, tea, the seep of warmth through mugs and into hands. She couldn't take her eyes off it.

"You have to understand this," Grissom went on, the pleading sliding towards desperation. "I don't blame you, Sara. You did everything right. Sometimes the evidence just--"

She still couldn't force her voice to work. In the background she heard Brass. _"Someone's coming, give me that!" _

A confusion of voices, a complicated clatter, a final click. Grissom was gone.

Sara set the phone back in its cradle. What had he been trying to tell her? That he was guilty?

That she wasn't?

Sara traced one finger over the cold metal curve of the kettle, then left it to sit on the unlit stove. Grabbing her jacket, she left the silent house behind.

* * *

The thing about Vegas, Sara thought dully, was there was always something to do when one had insomnia. The bells and lights and crowd noises produced a sort of numbness, replacing thought and allowing a vague approximation of peace to creep in. She'd left analysis behind the night before, when the evidence could not be ignored, and all that remained was her aching tangle of doubt. 

Sara didn't know how long she had been walking the Strip--hours, judging from the ache in her calves. She'd fled into the evening, looking for some place other than a bar to drown her thoughts. The Strip had served the purpose admirably, allowing her tight, endless circle of recrimination and disbelief to ease a little.

Now her dry eyes saw dawn starting to tinge the sky. She'd stopped for coffee at the Peppermill, to give her feet a break and warm up her chilled fingers, but it nonetheless surprised her that she was still walking.

_Maybe if I go home I can sleep. _

_Yeah, right._

She had almost made up her mind to go see Grissom as soon as visiting hours permitted. Just the thought hurt her, but he had asked, and...she owed him.

Besides, some part of her craved the sight of him.

His behavior had left her deeply confused. He hadn't denied her charge, nor admitted it; he hadn't seemed panicked, or even very upset, except for the illicit call from Brass' phone.

_I honestly don't know if that indicates guilt or not. _

_Gil..._

She kept moving. _Maybe if I get a motel room I'll be able to sleep. Nice anonymous sheets and mattress..._

It was proof of her exhaustion that the idea didn't immediately nauseate her.

Sara was contemplating the idea of sleeping pills without much interest when her phone buzzed in her pocket. Pulling it out, Sara read the message on the small screen.

_Whr the hll r u? _

It was from Greg.

Bemused, she stepped to the edge of the sidewalk, out of the main path of the crowd, and dialed his number. It picked up on the first ring. "Sara?"

"Yeah. What's the matter, Greg?"

His voice was impatient, excited. "You're not home, that's what's the matter. And you're not at the lab, or at the PD. I need to talk to you."

Sara sighed, not willing to face even her friends just yet. "Greg, I don't really want to--"

"I don't care." His harsh tone widened her eyes. "Sara, I _need_to talk to you. Get your butt home."

For a moment, Sara contemplated hanging up on him, but he didn't deserve that. "All right. Where are you?"

"At your house, _duh,"_ Greg said. "How d'you think I know you're not here?"

A faint glimmer of humor made her blink. "Right. I'll be there soon."

"Good." He sounded downright grumpy. "Hurry up, the coffee's getting cold."

Sara closed her phone, curiosity stirring slightly at Greg's uncharacteristic stridency. _What bug crawled up his ass?_

She was home within twenty minutes, a headache throbbing at the base of her skull and her temper shortening with the renewal of thought. Greg was sitting on the front steps, with Ronnie next to him, and Sara frowned in surprise and speculation. _What's she doing here?_

His VW was on her side of the driveway, so Sara parked next to it and climbed out. Greg was on his feet before she'd even gotten the door open, waving a thermos. Ronnie was carrying a doughnut box that Sara recognized as coming from the Fractured Prune, just down the street from the police department.

Sara crossed the expanse of sand and cobbles that served her and Grissom as a front yard, skirting the cacti with the ease of habit, and squinted at her visitors. "What the hell is going on, Greg?"

"Inside." At her frown, he gestured impatiently. "I'll explain as soon as we get in, I promise. C'mon, Sara, don't you trust me?"

He was excited, certainly, but the edge of manic humor was notably missing. _And when you put it like that..._

She unlocked the door and went in, letting them follow as they pleased. Greg strode in as if he'd been there more than twice, while Ronnie hung back near the door, looking around and still clutching the box.

Greg went straight over to the kitchen and unhooked three mismatched mugs from the mug tree, then filled them with the contents of the thermos. Rich coffee scent oozed out into the room, and all of a sudden Sara was aware of a sharp hunger.

"Here." Greg patted the breakfast bar, and Sara blinked, but he had been addressing Ronnie. She brought over the box and put it down, opening the lid to reveal the fresh warm doughnuts.

Greg handed each of them a mug. "To the creation of Operation Save Grissom," he said, lifting his own, and drank.

Automatically, Sara did likewise, and the hot dark flavor filled her mouth, sliding warmly down to her stomach in what felt like the first comfort she'd experienced in days.

It didn't make Greg's statement any clearer, though. "What are you talking about?"

"Jeez, Sara, you don't think we were just going to stand by and let this all happen, did you?" The look Greg bent on her was chiding. "Grissom needs us to figure out what's really going on."

Her tired brain couldn't quite make that compute, and it made her anger rise again. "What's really going on? All the evidence points to Grissom killing those kids, Greg, that's what's really going on." She set the mug down with a snap. "Either the evidence is right, and he _did,_ or I fucked it up majorly and he--"

She choked off the words, closing her eyes tightly and trying to take a deep breath. As if from a long way away, she heard Ronnie ask something in a soft voice.

Greg's answer was almost as quiet. "Down the hall, first door on your right."

A moment later a cool hand gripped her wrist, and Sara opened her eyes to find herself being towed to the living room space. Greg made her sit on the couch and take her coffee mug back, then sat on the coffee table in front of her. "Drink."

She was too tired to argue with him. The coffee shrank the lump in her throat, even if it didn't get rid of it entirely, and Sara cradled the vessel in both hands, meeting Greg's eyes.

They were as solemn as ever she'd seen them. "Sara...can't you see it? Grissom's being framed."

_Framed?_

Her jaw loosened, but Greg's last three words lit a spark in her darkness, blossoming into a stunned, incredulous hope, breaking her out of her tight, tired loop of guilt and disbelief. Sara stared at him for what felt like forever, trying to process the idea, trying to take it in. Her heart snatched hungrily at it, an explanation that made _all_ the pieces fit, not just the evidence.

_Framed. Of course--what the __**hell**__--_

"I can't believe I didn't think of that," she said at last. "Greg, how could I not _think_of that?"

Fury rose in her, acid anger at herself for not seeing the obvious, but before she could let it loose Greg patted her shoulder. His grin held an edge of glee, but his expression was sympathetic.

"It's been a rough week, Sar, cut yourself a break. We're trained to follow evidence, and this is just speculation." He puffed out a breath. "After all, it's been what, just a day since everything happened? And it's not like you haven't had, um, other stuff to think about."

With an effort Sara stilled the new clamor of guilt and anger, concentrating instead on the hope. "But you think it's true." Energy was returning to her, her muscles tightening with the urge to_prove_ Grissom innocent right that very second.

"It's the only logical explanation," Greg said, spoofing slightly. "You and me and the others, we _know_ Grissom. He's not a baby-killer. And he's got to have a million enemies after a career like his."

"This is true." Sara sipped absently at her coffee. "I don't know, Greg--where are we going to start? This guy is really, really good at what he does. I'm off the case, and they sure as hell aren't going to let you work it either--"

"--But Ronnie hasn't worked with Grissom," Greg cut in triumphantly. "Ecklie's handpicking a Dayshift team to take over the case, but Dr. Reyes insisted that Ronnie stay with it. So we have an inside source."

Sara shook her head, unable to keep back the protest. "That's highly unethical, we can't ask her to risk her career--"

"She volunteered," Greg said firmly. "And I'm going with 'it's easier to get forgiveness than permission' on this one. You know the lab doesn't want to lose him either, Sar--if we can prove he's innocent, they'll be grateful."

"Optimist," Sara muttered, meaning the odds of gratitude from the lab's top brass. _At least they dropped that idiotic rule last year, the one about getting fired after an arrest. _

Greg shrugged, and said nothing, waiting. Sara squeezed her eyes shut, and saw Grissom being led away in cuffs, every detail far too vivid.

_Gil._

"Okay," she said abruptly. "Let's do this thing."

Greg whooped, and snatched her up into a hug that made the fact that she'd emptied her mug a good thing. Sara felt a smile starting, a real one, and her heart lifted.

"This is good, this is _great,"_ Greg said happily. "With three of the best brains in the lab on the case, we're gonna _get_ this guy."

Sara extracted herself from his arms. "Three?" she asked in a low voice, slightly baffled; she knew Ronnie was smart, but--

"Yeah, have you _seen_ her résumé? C'mon, let's get started." He bounced over to the breakfast bar to grab the box of doughnuts and gestured impatiently, and Sara followed. Hope was a dizzying elixir in her veins, and even though she had no idea what they could do to help Grissom, it was utter relief to have another explanation.

Ronnie was perched on the edge of Grissom's desk chair, tapping at her laptop; she had pushed aside Grissom's keyboard. Greg plucked a doughnut from the box and put the container down next to Ronnie, then leaned on the edge of the desk where he could see the screen.

"Don't get crumbs on his papers," Sara warned, and Greg sneered affably.

"We're saving his butt, he won't care. What have we got, CSI Lake?"

Ronnie straightened, glancing at Sara, who came to look over her other shoulder. "I managed to get almost all the Pied Piper case reports and photos onto one thumb drive." Ronnie gestured at the screen. "Tox reports, fingerprints, autopsies--"

Her confidence seemed to grow as no one interrupted. "I was thinking, we should reexamine all the evidence in light of our new hypothesis. I mean, you said--" She looked at Sara again. "--that we should make the theory fit the evidence, not the other way around, but all that does is lead us back to Dr. Grissom, so..."

Sara reached over Ronnie's head to whap the snickering Greg on the arm. "Ignore him, he doesn't appreciate a good quote. Sounds like a plan, Ronnie--we can look at each piece again and see where it takes us."

Ronnie beamed.

Grissom's printer hummed for a long time, and each of them took a stack of case reports out to the big main room, scribbling notes in the margins and trading files as they finished. The doughnuts disappeared rapidly, and when the midmorning sun was halfway across the floor, Sara climbed to her feet and went in search of the phone.

"What?" Greg asked distractedly, not even looking up from his work.

"We need serious pie if we're going to keep going," Sara answered, punching up the speed-dial for Tuscany Pizza. "Ronnie, what do you want on yours?"

When the doorbell rang Ronnie started to get up, but Sara shook her head, both at her colleague and at Greg's reach for his wallet. "I've got this."

The other two seemed to take the delivery as a sign that it was time for a break, standing and stretching. Sara fetched plates and drinks, and for a little while there was mostly just munching.

The hot food lifted the fog of Sara's exhaustion somewhat. "Did you guys tell anyone that you were coming here?"

Ronnie shook her head. "No," Greg said. "Why, you want Nick and Warrick and Cath in on this?"

"No," Sara said quickly, knowing that keeping their work clandestine would be difficult enough as it was. "No, I think it's better if it's just us three. But Ronnie, I don't think you should come here again."

"Why not?" Ronnie asked, looking puzzled.

"Because sooner or later you guys on the case are going to have to process this house," Sara pointed out. "Grissom's a suspect--the lab's going to tear this place apart looking for evidence."

"Oh. Right," Ronnie said. Greg winced.

"Shit. I'm sorry, Sara, I didn't even think of that."

Sara shrugged. "There's nothing we can do about it now. Did anyone see you when you were waiting for me?"

Ronnie wrinkled her nose, thinking. "A couple of cars drove by, but it was just dawn--I don't think anyone was really looking. Somebody did run by on the other side of the street, but he had a dog on a leash and it was taking his attention."

"And we have my car," Greg put in.

Sara nodded. "All right. You two need to get some sleep before shift, so let's see what we have, and then you should go."

"Well, the fingerprints could have been faked with the right materials," Ronnie began. "Either by lifting them directly or by making a set that covers the killer's fingers."

"Expensive, but possible," Greg agreed. "We're talking serious obsession, though."

"Pretty much," Sara said somberly.

Greg grimaced in agreement. "The hair could go either way--without a tag, it could actually be Grissom's or just from someone with similar hair."

Ronnie frowned again, this time in thought. "Mmm...excuse me a second?"

She put down her plate and went back into Grissom's study. Greg watched her go, then turned back to Sara. "The car fibers could have come from Grissom's car or just a similar model--I suppose we could check for rentals..."

"Not without a warrant," Sara pointed out. "We can keep it in mind."

"Was his car broken into recently?" Greg asked with sudden interest. Sara blinked.

"Not that I know of...and he would have mentioned it."

"Maybe we should look." Greg waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

The handles of the doors on Grissom's Mercedes looked untouched, but with the strength of Sara's magnifying glass they found minute, fresh scratches around the trunk lock.

"Grissom's not careless with his keys." Sara stared at the little lines--the first possible evidence that Greg's madcap theory might be right.

"We should open it, see if there's any trace inside," Greg said, but Sara shook her head sharply.

"No. We'll leave that to the lab."

Greg opened his mouth to argue, then slowly smiled. "Gotcha."

When they got back inside Ronnie was eating another slice of pizza, a fresh printout in front of her. Sara gave her a tight smile.

"Ron, when your team comes to process this house, I want you to pay special attention to Grissom's car. Particularly the trunk lock and interior."

Ronnie looked from Sara to Greg and back, and then nodded slowly, understanding. "Right."

She picked up the printout and passed it to Sara. "Here. I remembered seeing this online a while back."

It was a journal article announcing a new way of obtaining mitochondrial DNA from hair that lacked skin tags. Sara read it through quickly, impressed by the science, but looked up with regret.

"It's a great idea, but one short strand of hair probably isn't enough."

Ronnie grimaced. "I figured, but I thought you should see it anyway."

Greg held out a hand, and Sara gave him the article. "It could really be his hair, too," she said. "It could even still be cross-contamination--we just don't know."

"If the killer could get Grissom's prints, it shouldn't be too hard to get some hairs too," Greg commented absently as he read. "Might even be easier."

"And it looks as though the car fibers are planted as well," Sara added, and shook her head. "Whoever this is _knows_ Grissom."

"Should we be making a list of possible suspects?" Ronnie asked hesitantly.

Sara shook her head again. "Too big. Grissom has dealt with thousands of suspects during his career, and it doesn't even have to be a perp--it could be a family member or a friend, or even someone whose attacker wasn't convicted, for instance."

"We need more data," Greg sighed, tossing down the paper.

"Well, whoever this is has to be kind of rich," Ronnie said. Sara cocked her head, and the younger woman elaborated. "You said to check out silver purchases, Sara. There's a _lot_ of them, and I couldn't find anything to link to anyone, but it's not that cheap. Between the beads, the silver chains, and the medals, the chaplets probably cost a lot to make."

"Then why use such cheap crucifixes?" Greg complained, picking up the relevant report. "Real crystal beads, but pot metal crosses?"

Sara smiled, another piece of the puzzle slotting into place. "Because they're harder to trace, Greg. Beads and chain get sold in bulk all the time, but a bulk purchase of solid silver crucifixes is not only really expensive, but it stands out."

Ronnie sat back, tapping her lips with her pen, then scribbled another note. "I'll make sure to run Grissom's financial records," she said, and grinned at Sara's nod of approval.

"All right," Greg said, burying his face in his hands and rubbing wearily. His voice was muffled. "Whoever this guy is, he knows how Grissom feels about kids, and--as you said, Sara--keeps track of where he goes."

Greg dropped his hands, blinking; his eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue, but still bright. "Ronnie, you'd better add a tracking device to your search."

Sara sat up straight. "He drove a lab SUV to McGill."

"You think someone tagged all of the lab vehicles?" Ronnie asked, scribbling.

"No...that would be harder to do," Sara said, her shoulders slumping.

Greg narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, but all he would need was an inside track on lab assignments. That kid was taken from Moapa, right? So if the killer knew Grissom was going up there, all he would have to do was pick a victim and wait until he came through town."

"He'd have to know about the detour on 93," Sara pointed out, but Greg scoffed.

"Everyone would know about that, it was on the news. Do you think we're dealing with a lab insider here?"

They were all silent a moment; the thought was unpleasant in the extreme, and Sara didn't want to contemplate the idea of any of their colleagues murdering children, let alone setting up Grissom.

"Maybe," she said finally. "Obviously the killer understands forensics. But they could also have hacked into the admin system--didn't Archie say it had bad security?"

"'More holes than Swiss cheese'," Greg quoted dryly.

"And they know Grissom's Catholic," Ronnie added.

"Not...exactly," Sara said slowly. "He said himself that he's not really a Catholic any more."

"So the chaplets don't fit?" Greg asked.

Sara pursed her lips. "It depends on how you look at it, I guess...I mean, I thought he was doing it because he'd flipped out."

Greg shrugged, conceding. "But if he _didn't..."_

"Then the killer is working from a false assumption," Sara concluded. "And that means that they've made their first mistake."

"Second," Greg corrected, and grinned. "The first was pissing you off."

**  
**


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. All others belong to me, and if you want to borrow them, you have to ask me first. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**Spoilers: through "Bull" **

**Note: this story includes the non-graphic deaths of children.**

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Grissom was in a cell by himself, and the sight of him in a wrinkled shirt, his hair uncombed as he sat on the thin jailhouse bunk, made Sara's heart twist in her chest. He looked tired, the persistent exhaustion that had plagued him before he'd taken his sabbatical, and it was disturbing to see those clever, supple hands so idle, clasped loosely together and dangling between his knees. Normally, they were always busy; examining evidence, turning pages, cooking, touching.

It had been almost two days since she'd seen him, and Sara bit her lip; the urge to grab onto him and hold tight was almost overwhelming, the bars between them notwithstanding.

The burly sergeant who'd escorted her in gave her a gravely sympathetic glance. "Normal visiting times are five minutes, ma'am," he rumbled, "but if we ain't busy I might forget to come get you for a while."

Sara smiled wanly at him, thankful that this portion of the police department, at least, was willing to stretch the rules for one of their own.

_Which_ one of their own he was thinking of, her or Grissom, didn't matter. She gave him a grateful nod, but the sound of his heavy boots treading back to the exit barely reached her ears; her attention was all on Grissom.

His face had lit at the sight of her, and he stood hastily, striding over to the bars, hands reaching through for hers. Contact was against the rules, but Sara didn't spare a thought for the rules as she grabbed Grissom's hands in a tight grip.

"Are you okay?" they asked simultaneously, then laughed, and Grissom stepped even closer, his eyes concerned.

"Have you slept at all?"

Sara refrained from rolling her eyes. "I will when I get home."

They were at the end of the cell block, and the next two cells on either side of the aisle were unoccupied; Sara blessed both the slow day for arrests and the consideration of whoever had chosen Grissom's cell. She knew some of the other prisoners were watching as best they could--anything new was entertainment--but if they kept their voices low they could be relatively private. "Seriously, Gil, are you all right?"

His thumbs caressed her wrists. "I'm fine. Everyone here has been very courteous."

"I dropped off some clothes and stuff for you with the sergeant--I don't know if you'll get them, but--"

"Sara." He shook her hands slightly to get her attention. "Please."

She blew out her breath. "I...understand what you were trying to tell me on the phone. About the evidence."

"But you don't accept it?"

"I...it doesn't matter, Gil." She leaned in and lowered her voice. "Greg came to see me. We think--Gil, you're being framed."

A slow smile spread over his face, pride and love mingling. "And what evidence do you have to support that?"

"Oh please." Sara snorted. "I should have seen it earlier, but..." Her humor vanished. "Gil, I'm so sorry--"

He shook his head, a sharp movement that cut off her apology. "What did I _tell_ you on the phone?"

This time she did roll her eyes, but Sara pressed on to more important issues. "Do you have any ideas on who could be doing this?"

"Far too many." Grissom's mouth twisted. "There are some disks in the safe at home that have notes about my more...memorable...cases, but unfortunately..."

He trailed off, and Sara nodded in dry agreement. "It could be just about anybody, I know."

"Anybody with a knowledge of forensics, that is." He pursed his lips. "There's something odd about all this, but I can't quite--"

The exit at the far end of the cell block clanged open, and the hush was shattered by drunken cursing as two officers manhandled an extremely intoxicated and belligerent man through the door. Sara grimaced.

"I should go. Gil, I'll be back tomorrow but I don't know when--"

"Concentrate on what's important. They'll be arraigning me tomorrow morning, I believe."

Sara winced, and Grissom drew her left hand briefly within the bars and dropped a swift kiss on it. "Go."

She let her fingers brush his unshaven cheek, and did, obeying his unspoken desire to keep their farewell short. The drunk was safely, if noisily, in his cell, and the sergeant nodded respectfully and let her back out into the world.

Grissom's kiss still tingled on her hand, and it was that phantom sensation that let her sleep at last, his pillow under her head.

* * *

The arraignment was like a nightmare, albeit a brief one. Sara arrived at the courtroom early, in her best working suit, but there were already others there--all the Nightshift, several techs--and, oddly enough, Ecklie.

The room was crowded, which wasn't unexpected given the sheer number of cases that went through it each day. Sara recognized a few faces on the far side of the room; parents of some of the slain children. Some were set, some were tearstained.

She bit her lip, conflicted; she wanted to defend Grissom against them, but at the same time, she knew that they could know no better than to believe in his guilt. _After all, you set it all up yourself. _

A wave broke her out of her shame, and Sara saw Brass pat the seat next to him. She joined him, keeping her voice down under the ongoing sound of other court business. "Thanks for the call yesterday."

Brass grimaced. "Yeah, what can they do, fire me?" He squeezed her hand briefly, an unexpected display of affection. "Have you seen him yet?"

"Yesterday." Sara squeezed back, then folded her hands in her lap and did her best to look decorous. "He seems to be okay."

Brass humphed, and would have said something, but at that moment Grissom was escorted into the courtroom.

He was flanked by an officer of the court and by his lawyer; the latter was a short and deceptively mild-looking man. Later, Sara would be glad of him, because Bhupendra Saxena was one of the best criminal lawyers available and honest to boot; but at the moment all she could concentrate on was Grissom.

He looked...well, delicious, the sight of him in a suit always did that to her, but also very tired, and Sara worried at once whether he'd had any breakfast at all. But he was calm and dignified, and while he didn't turn his head as he came in, she saw his eyes flicker, and knew that that sharp glance had taken in all the audience. He knew she was there--he knew they were all there.

His turn came up fairly soon; this particular arraignment court was moving efficiently. There was a mutter as the charges were read, and many heads craned to see what was going on. Seven counts of murder in the first degree, kidnapping, aggravated assault; the list was damning.

The judge was a tall woman with dark hair running to grey and a grimly lined face. She eyed Grissom without favor or disfavor, as if she'd never seen him before; an achievement, Sara knew, since Grissom had testified before almost every criminal court judge in the city, and most more than once. "How do you plead?"

Grissom lifted his chin and returned the look calmly. "Not guilty," he said in a firm low voice.

Another murmur ran around the room. The D.A., who was as tall as the judge but much younger, stood quite straight. "In light of the heinousness of these crimes, the People ask for remand, your Honor."

Grissom's lawyer protested gently, his lightly accented voice reaching through the courtroom without apparent effort. "Your Honor, Dr. Grissom is a respected citizen and an officer of the law. The evidence in this case is entirely circumstantial and my client is not a flight risk. We request bail."

The judge's expression did not alter as she listened to both pleas. "No bail," she said without hesitation. "The defendant is remanded to custody."

With a rap of her gavel, it was over, almost too quickly to take in. Another mutter rose, one with some triumph in it. Sara didn't recognize the woman weeping noisily on the other side of the room, but it wasn't hard to guess that she was the mother of one of the murdered children.

With no further ceremony, Grissom was taken out again, not looking back. Next to Sara, Brass stirred. "That's that."

Sara sighed and tried to relax her shoulders. She hadn't really expected a different outcome; despite Saxena's words, Grissom could easily be considered a flight risk, and given the publicity concerning the murders, he might actually be safer in custody.

_As long as they keep him confined alone--_

As if reading her thoughts, Brass spoke. "Don't worry, I've put out the word. Anybody who touches him, or lets him get so much as a stubbed toe, is gonna have to answer to me. And _then_ the Sheriff, if there's anything left over."

His smile was meant to be reassuring, but his eyes still held worry, and Sara knew why. Even with the best of care, accidents still happened. And the two kinds of prisoners most at risk in a prison population were cops, and child abusers. The fact that Grissom was actually neither would not count at all.

"How long until a trial, do you think?" she asked as they rose and began to make their way out of the room.

"Faster than usual," Brass opined. "Media involvement and the fact that he's an insider--they're going to want to get this one out of the way as soon as they can."

Greg met them as they entered the hallway outside the courtroom, giving Sara a hard brief hug. "Hanging in there?" he said in her ear.

"Yeah." Sara pushed down the lump in her throat.

He nodded. "Later," he said, barely above a whisper, then stepped aside for Nick.

He, too, insisted on a hug, this one longer and redolent of support. When he let her go, his face was concerned. "You know he didn't do this, Sar."

Shame and annoyance--at herself, for missing the obvious--swelled, but she just smiled grimly. "I know."

Nick's grin was not very happy. "Cath's on a tear about this whole thing, so 'Rick took her out before she could lay into you. But you've got _our_ support." He patted her shoulder. "You need anything, you let us know."

_A suspect,_ Sara carefully didn't say. Greg was already risking his career to investigate the situation, and Sara didn't want anyone else from the night shift getting involved; there was a good chance that even if they could prove Grissom innocent, Greg and Ronnie and Sara would still lose their jobs.

_Besides, too many people involved and we'll lose any hope of secrecy._ "Thanks, Nick," was all she said.

He nodded, and left. Sara didn't grudge him; after all, it was the middle of the night for him.

"You should get some sleep," she reminded Brass, who was still at her side. He chuckled without much humor.

"Yeah. Look, I'll walk you out; the media's going to be lying in wait."

"In the parking garage?" Sara asked, suddenly amused, and he smiled.

"You never know. Indulge an old man in his paranoia, huh?"

There was no one in the garage, however; the media hounds were apparently sticking to the front steps of the courthouse. Sara let Brass see her safely to her Prius, and as she opened the door he laid a hand on her arm. "Hey. As an officer of the law, I have to stay impartial."

Sara nodded, wondering where he was going with this. Had Greg asked him into their little cabal?

Brass let out a breath. "But if you need anything--information, a question answered, an update--you can call me. I won't know what it's for, of course--" His eyes gleamed. "--but hey, you're a CSI. Always asking weird questions, you know?"

Her heart warmed. "Absolutely." Sara smiled at him. "I'll keep that in mind, Jim. I may have a lot of questions."

Some of the tension in his face relaxed. "Good, good. Glad to hear it." He stepped back. "Go home, get some rest."

"You too." Sara swung down into the driver's seat. "Jim--thanks."

He tossed her a casual salute, and walked off towards his own car. Sara closed her door and started the engine, feeling somehow much better than she had when she'd arrived.

She found a text message on her phone when she got home, from Greg, announcing that the second meeting of Operation Save Grissom would be held the next morning. Sara itched with the need to do something_sooner,_ but the timing made sense. _For one thing, he and Ronnie need to sleep before shift._

She would have preferred to spend the afternoon going over the case data yet again, but Ronnie had taken her thumb drive with her and Greg had removed the printout, so that no trace remained in the house of their activities. Instead, Sara retrieved Grissom's disks from the safe and began working her way through the files on them, using her own laptop.

The knock on the door, when it came, was not entirely unexpected.

Sara closed the files, and on impulse put the disks into her sweater pocket before going to answer. As she'd thought, the little front stoop of the house was crowded with a worn-looking Vartann, another officer, two Dayshift CSIs, and Ronnie.

"Ms. Sidle, we have a warrant to search your house," Vartann said formally, holding out the paper.

Sara took it, unfolding it and scanning it out of habit, but as she expected it was in precise order. As soon as she looked up, Vartann nodded. "Please step outside."

The closed expression on his face told her, paradoxically, that he hated what he was doing. Sara gave him a small smile and obeyed.

When she didn't scream at him, Vartann relaxed slightly. "Do we need to clear the house?" he asked, his voice conveying regret.

"No. Go ahead," Sara told them, and moved aside. The Dayshift CSIs were rigidly formal, while Ronnie refused to meet Sara's eyes at all.

Sara approved. It was the perfect touch.

The CSIs and Vartann entered the house, while the officer--a woman--remained outside with Sara. Sara seated herself on the front steps and prepared to wait. The disks were a slight weight in her pocket, and she was glad for her own forethought; if the murderer really were an insider at the lab, she didn't want them knowing that she was aware of the frame.

Not yet.

If they were being extremely thorough, the CSIs might confiscate her laptop, but she doubted it. They would certainly take Grissom's computer, but that didn't worry her--there was nothing on it that would incriminate him. She'd already checked.

_Unless--the killer gets to the hard drive __**after**__it reaches the lab--_

Her spine crawled at the thought, and Sara made a mental note to mention it to both Ronnie and Greg. It wasn't likely, but better to cover all the bases.

The search took hours. Sara expected that; this case was worth the Dayshift CSIs' jobs, at least, and they would be careful. When the kitchen was cleared, Sara talked her attendant officer into letting her back in to make coffee, though no one else would accept any. Sara took her cup and went back out to the front stairs, sipping and watching the sunset redden the sky.

Various of their neighbors came out to watch for a while, but none of them approached to ask questions; she and Grissom weren't exactly close to any of the other families, being both antisocial and workaholics. She was grateful for their reticence in this case. _I don't want to have to try to explain this to anyone. _Grissom's arrest had been on the news, of course, but Sara didn't think her neighbors knew exactly who she and Grissom were.

Eventually Ronnie and one of the other CSIs came out to process Sara's car. Vartann emerged too, and gave her a receipt to sign for not only the evidence--Grissom's computer, some of his tools, various other items--but also his Mercedes. Sara winced slightly at the thought of what the poor vehicle was going to go through, but signed. Ronnie was keeping her promise.

When it looked as though they were packing up, Sara stood, stretched, and strolled over to one of the Dayshift people, a rather sanctimonious young man named Randall. He frowned as she approached, and Sara took a somewhat malicious enjoyment in the knowledge that she was taller than he was. "Did you guys get the safe open that easily? No one asked me for the combination."

All three CSIs exchanged glances, confusion and rue marking their faces. "What safe?" the other Dayshift CSI asked finally.

Vartann put his hands on his hips, exasperated. "Ms. Sidle...show us the safe, please."

Sara held back a snicker and led them back inside. As she went up the stairs she could hear Vartann, just behind her, grumbling under his breath about Ecklie and his people.

She reached to the sill above the bedroom door and retrieved the safe key, and smiled at him. "Don't be too hard on them, Sam. It's not in the usual place."

The CSIs had to crowd back against the wall as Sara reversed direction and led them into the master bath, which fortunately had enough room for everyone. Stepping over to the built-in towel warmer, Sara braced her hands on either side of its frame and pressed her thumbs to the catches set into the metal.

The warmer popped loose, and she swung it out on its hinges, revealing the fire-rated safe behind. With the ease of practice, Sara inserted the key and punched in the combination, then opened the safe door and stood aside. "Please note," she said pleasantly, "that I am not impeding this investigation in any way."

The weight in her sweater pocket belied her words, but it was only a small exception. Sara stood by and watched as Ronnie photographed and Randall went through the safe's contents, which included extra cash, important papers, and a few pieces of Grissom's mother's jewelry. In the end, though, they took nothing; none of it was pertinent to the case.

The CSIs went back downstairs as Sara closed and relocked the safe and replaced the towel warmer. As she put the key away, Vartann broke the silence. "Why? They'd never have figured it out."

Sara gave him a tired smile. "Because Ecklie would have noticed it was missing, and then they would all have gotten in trouble. He would know that Grissom would have a safe somewhere."

Vartann nodded slowly. "I think you should have let them, but your choice, Sidle."

They headed back down the stairs, and Vartann sighed. "I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but the PD's in an uproar over Grissom."

Sara glanced back at him. "Oh?"

"Yeah." He rubbed his forehead. "Half of us think he's innocent and this is all some kind of crock, while the other half swear they knew he'd snap someday."

She snorted, and Vartann grinned. "Yeah, I know. Look, is there anything you need out of his lab office? 'Cause that's where we're headed next."

Sara shook her head. "Just make sure they don't break his fetal pig jar."

"Yeah," Vartann repeated cheerfully. "Creepy as hell, you guys."

He loped off to collect the CSIs and leave, and Sara locked the door after them all and looked around at the mess. The search hadn't been destructive, but there were plenty of things out of place and there was print powder everywhere. Sara sighed.

"Well," she muttered, "at least now I have something to do." 


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. All others belong to me, and if you want to borrow them, you have to ask me first. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**Spoilers: through "Bull" **

**Note: this story includes the non-graphic deaths of children.**

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

The doorbell roused Sara from a sodden but blessedly nightmare-free sleep. Snagging a robe, she padded downstairs, yawning, and opened the door to find Greg outside, haloed by early-morning sunshine. His eyes narrowed at the sight of her. "I hate you," he said, and came in.

"No sleep?" Sara guessed dryly, and went to dig out the premium coffee from the freezer.

"A solid double," Greg confirmed, collapsing onto the couch with a groan. "You're lucky I took a shower before I got here."

"Believe me, I'm grateful," Sara teased as she poured beans into the grinder of the coffeemaker. "I've smelled you before."

Greg snorted and stretched out full-length on the cushions, propping his feet on the armrest. Since the soles of his shoes extended beyond the cloth, Sara didn't chide him. "You know, I thought being on Swing would keep me from having to work all night." He yawned. "Anyway, Ronnie's tied up in a meeting, but she said to tell you that there's no new info."

Which meant, to Sara's relief, that they had found nothing they could call probative in the search of the house or Grissom's office. Except--

"What about his mother's rosary?" Sara asked as soon as the grinder finished roaring. "He keeps it in a drawer at work."

Greg's voice floated over the back of the couch. "I don't know anything about that. She said she had something else for us, though, but it's gonna have to wait until she gets out."

"When are we meeting her?" Sara punched the brew button and left the machine to its work.

Greg glanced at his watch. "Hour."

He was halfway to sleep, Sara judged. "I'm going to get dressed. Make yourself at home, you know the drill."

His only answer was an indistinct mumble, and Sara left him to his impromptu nap. The coffee would keep.

Forty minutes later Greg was nursing a travel mug of hot coffee, and Sara was driving his car to the little curry shop where they had arranged to meet. The elaborate lengths they were taking felt a little silly to Sara, but none of them wanted to betray their clandestine association through carelessness.

Ronnie had beaten them there, and was working on a huge meal when they arrived. She waved at them as they came in, her eyes bright, and Sara suppressed a slightly sour grin. _Oh, to be twenty-four again._

Greg sat down opposite Ronnie, wrinkling his nose. "I don't know how you can eat that stuff."

She pointed her fork at him. "This from the guy who eats lutefisk?"

They seemed to be getting along quite well, Sara observed as she took her seat and watched them bicker amiably. "What's the word?" she finally asked.

Ronnie swallowed her bite and turned to Sara. "Frankly, we've got nothing, but everyone is claiming that Grissom just keeps his chaplet-making equipment someplace else."

"Which makes sense, if you think about it," Greg broke in. "I mean, you live together, he wouldn't do it _there."_

"True." Sara looked back to Ronnie. "What about the rosary in his desk?"

"Oh, it's an antique. It has a woman's name on the box--Olivia? We figure it's his mother or grandmother, but no one's had time to look it up yet."

"She was his mother." Sara relaxed slightly. The rosary was less probative as evidence if it was known to be a keepsake.

"Yeah, good." Ronnie sipped at her soda. "His car was definitely broken into, but none of the others think that's significant. I documented everything though."

Sara smiled. "Thank you, Ronnie. It may be important later."

Greg drummed his fingers on the table, frowning in thought. "How are we going to narrow down a list of suspects on this thing? I mean, it's just too wide open right now."

He was right, and Sara's spirits sank a little. "I don't know. I started looking at some of his past cases, but there are so many." She sighed. "We need more data. Maybe interviewing the people who were nearby when the children were abducted..."

She trailed off, oppressed by the enormity of the task. With official sanction, it would only be a matter of time and footwork, but without it would be nearly impossible. _Maybe if I pretended to be a private detective..._

"Data. Huh." Greg leaned his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand. "Well, you know, the killer has to be getting his data from somewhere. I mean, lab schedules and all that--it's not like they're public."

"They're not secret, either," Sara pointed out, but Greg shrugged.

"No, but think about it. If somebody on the outside wanted to know where Grissom was going to be when, _without_ asking obvious questions, they'd have to have a line into the lab."

"Police scanner," Sara said, slipping into the old back-and-forth that she had been used to with Nick and Warrick, brainstorming ideas and trying to find the flaws.

"That wouldn't tell them when he was going out of town," Ronnie interjected. "Maybe calling the front desk?"

"Good idea, but nah, the receptionists aren't allowed to give out that kind of info," Greg said, and Sara smiled a little. _I guess he's doing some mentoring of his own._ "And Grissom never uses the calendar on the lab's intranet."

"He couldn't claim to forget staff meetings if he did," Sara sighed. "So, postulating some kind of insider access to the lab..."

The easy, almost lighthearted energy evaporated as the conclusion became clear. Sara felt her guts chilling. _Either someone at the lab is siphoning info, or the killer actually __**works**__ there..._

Greg looked as though he'd tasted something worse than lutefisk. "I'll cross-check the records. See if anyone doesn't have an alibi."

Ronnie set down her fork as if she'd suddenly lost her appetite, and Sara frowned. The lab wasn't so large that they didn't know basically everyone who worked there, at least by sight; the idea that one of their colleagues could be either a serial murderer or a sellout was not pleasant at all. The alternative--a cop--was no better. They'd faced the possibility before, but this time it seemed more dire.

"It's a place to start," Sara said at last. "If we want to clear Grissom we have to find a thread to follow."

"I have this really cool metaphor about spiders and webs, but I'm too tired," Greg sighed, slumping as though he had no spine.

Ronnie rolled her eyes, and Sara found the strength to grin a little. "Fine. Go home and get some rest, both of you. I'll work on Grissom's case files and see if anything stands out."

"Want a lift?" Greg asked, straightening a little, but Sara shook her head.

"I'll catch a cab back, you sleep. Ronnie, if you have any questions, give me a call, just--"

"--Use my own phone, I know." Ronnie grinned at her, a bit of her enthusiasm resurfacing. "No worries."

Sara smirked, pleased that Ronnie had caught her out. "Okay. Ron...if there's any way...can you make sure that Gil's computer is locked up tight? If the killer _does_ work at the lab, he or she might try to plant evidence on the hard drive."

Greg tilted his head back to grin up at Sara. "Your boss is already on top of that. All the evidence in Grissom's case has to be signed out by two investigators at once."

Ronnie nodded. "She's double-checking documentation too. It's almost like..." The young woman hesitated. "...Like she thinks he might be framed as well."

"She's just covering the lab's collective ass," Greg disagreed amiably; Sara sensed that the issue had already been discussed.

"Well, I'll let you guys know if anything turns up," Sara said as she rose. She ran a hand over Greg's hair, neatly dodging his swat, and smiled at both of them. "Thanks, you two. This means a lot to me."

Ronnie blushed, and Greg just grinned back. "Hey, it's Grissom, y'know?"

She did.

* * *

A call from Grissom's lawyer interrupted Sara's study of Grissom's old cases, and she was almost grateful when he asked if he could stop by and see her. The files were interesting, with a strong flavor of her lover despite the clinical precision of his notes, but she wasn't finding anything that seemed to point to their killer.

_Maybe a break will help._

When the doorbell sounded, Sara rose to let the lawyer in; unlike Dayshift's Randall, Mr. Saxena was not at all dismayed by the fact that he was several inches shorter than she, and passed with courteously murmured greetings.

She gestured him to a seat on the couch, and he took it, setting his briefcase neatly on the coffee table. Sara chose an armchair, offered something to drink--which he politely refused--and waited for him to speak.

Saxena was bordering on elderly, and the softness of age combined with a round face made him look--to her mind--like a rather intellectual guinea pig. But the mild exterior hid a razor-edged mind; Sara had been cross-examined by him more than once, and respected both his brains and his instincts. Grissom could hardly have chosen a better defender.

"I saw Dr. Grissom this morning," he began, and Sara sat up straighter. "He sends his love, and said to assure you that he is being well taken care of."

The words should have been absurd coming from the little man, but to Sara they were precious. "Thank you," she said, wry. "Is he telling the truth?"

Saxena's small return smile acknowledged the hit. "Yes, in fact. I can't say that he's comfortable, but jail isn't designed for comfort."

"Too true." Sara sighed, thinking of Grissom spending his sleeping hours on the hard, narrow cot.

"I'll get straight to the point, Ms. Sidle," Saxena said, resting his hands on impeccably-trousered knees. "I consider this case to be one that could go either way. The evidence is mostly circumstantial, but it can be used to paint Dr. Grissom in a very poor light."

Sara winced. "I know."

Saxena nodded. "Exactly. The prosecution will probably take advantage of the fact that you investigated this case; I can try to get the judge to rule you as an unacceptable witness, but I may not succeed." He blinked benignly. "There is one other option, however."

Sara nodded, her hands clenching on the chair's arms. "I know, but we may not be able to prove in time that Grissom's being framed."

That made Saxena's brows rise. "You believe that someone is trying to frame him?"

Sara frowned. "You think he's guilty?"

"Not...exactly." He shook his head, then fished out a pair of glasses from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and put them on. His eyes looked huge behind the lenses as he peered at her. "Ms. Sidle, many criminal defense lawyers would say that guilt and innocence are both immaterial, that all that matters is creating reasonable doubt in the mind of a jury. I am not one of them."

He stroked his chin with one finger, a meditative fidget. "I have known Gil for a number of years, mainly in a professional capacity; we are not close friends, you understand, but have found occasion to, ah, talk shop in a social setting, once in a while."

Sara didn't quite know where he was going, but curiosity was rapidly getting the better of her, so she didn't interrupt.

"The truth was, when I found out the crimes of which Gil is accused, my first thought was that he had gone mad." Saxena sighed. "It was the only explanation that made sense, that someone so self-possessed and otherwise rational would be able to carry these killings out and remain, on the surface, the same."

"You thought his personality had split?" Sara asked softly.

"Possibly." The lawyer blinked again, as if processing information. "In any case, I did not consider him fully rational--I advised him strongly to plead not guilty by reason of mental disease, but he refused."

_Of course he did._ Grissom would, she had reflected more than once, make a truly terrifying criminal if he did choose to switch sides, but he would never plead guilty for something he knew he had not done.

She could remember the times he'd reminded her that the system wasn't perfect, that sometimes the guilty did go unpunished, but somehow the innocent being punished was worse. Left to his own devices, Grissom could survive prison; she could see him writing letters and books, reading, trying patiently for an appeal. But a former criminalist convicted of murdering half a dozen small children, in with the general population--

He wouldn't last a month, and nothing about that month would be easy.

"He's not insane," she said firmly. "No blackouts, no strange behavior. He's being framed."

"So you say." Saxena looked intrigued. "Are the police aware of this?"

"Not...exactly." Sara bit her lip. "How much of what I say to you is in confidence?"

"Hm, that touches on the matter I wished to discuss, but for the purposes of this conversation, let us say all of it." He smiled gently. "This is, after all, a private interview."

"All right. I strongly believe he's being framed, but I have no evidence--yet--to prove it. No physical evidence, anyway."

"So it is not an official investigation?" When Sara shook her head, Saxena deflated slightly. "Ah, well. I wish you every success, but unless it becomes official it is outside my purview."

"When it does, I'll let you know," Sara said, stressing the first word slightly, and Saxena's smirk let her know that he'd caught it.

"Very good. Now, as I was saying, there is one way to avoid having you called to testify on the prosecution's behalf."

He stopped, and Sara gaped at him as she realized what he was proposing. "Are you serious?"

The lawyer smiled again. "The law states that a wife cannot be compelled to testify against her husband, nor a husband against his wife. Dr. Grissom said that you are already engaged; and while it is not common, a quick exchange of vows is possible."

Sara sat silent for a moment, trying to absorb the idea. Marrying Grissom in a jail cell seemed almost absurd, a melodramatic way to avoid the witness problem, but it would work, and it wasn't as though they weren't planning on marrying already.

But in her mind's ear she heard Grissom, a little shy but dreamy, talking about the ceremony he had in mind, a small private wedding without haste or fuss; _someplace beautiful,_ he'd said, the romantic in him breaking free for a moment.

_Whatever else it is, a jail cell is not beautiful._

"Did he suggest it?" Sara asked.

"Actually, he turned down the idea," Saxena admitted, looking the slightest bit sheepish. "But you may be able to convince him otherwise."

Sara could easily guess at Grissom's reasons--for one thing, he would not want to tie her to him if he were convicted. _Stupid. It's not like I'm going to abandon him if that happens._

"Let's...wait a bit," she said at last. "Things may change."

"True." Saxena accepted her demur. "But do not wait too long; if you do marry, it must appear credible."

"I know." Sara sighed. _We have got to figure this out._

* * *

After Saxena left, Sara put away Grissom's disks and got ready to go visit him at the jail. As she pulled on her shoes, she realized that the sound her subconscious had been ignoring for the past few minutes was the deep, repetitive barking of Bruno next door.

She frowned. Bruno was not an idle barker, and he sounded like he meant business. Sara walked to the window and looked out and down.

The boxer had a nice setup in the high-fenced yard next door; a large shady tree, a few toys to chew on, and a wading pool filled with water for when he felt the need for a dip. The couple who owned him weren't usually prone to ignore his noise for so long, but Sara had a more than sneaking suspicion that Bruno got shooed out into the yard at times so that the neighbors could have some "private time".

_I guess they're a little too...involved...to pay attention right now...so what the hell is he barking at? _

Sara went downstairs and out the back door, calling the dog over to the fence to reassure him. He came happily, and Sara scratched his ears through the chainlink, trying to examine what she could see of the street without being obvious about it.

But she had to go back inside and look through the front window before she spotted what had set Bruno off: a strange car parked along the curb across the street, engine idling. She squinted at the figure in the driver's seat, and swore when she recognized the reporter's face.

_Great. News 3. The second I walk out the door they'll be all over me--_

Fuming, Sara considered leaving anyway. _But even if I get into the car in the garage, they'll follow me. And I really don't want to have any kind of interaction with the press outside the jail! _

She pressed her fingers against her eyes, trying to ease the weight within, then sighed in exasperation. _Think outside the box, why don't you. _

It was a moment's work to call for a cab to meet her two blocks away, and hardly more than that to lock the back door behind her and hoist herself over the backyard fence. The neighbors on that side were at work, and there was no one but Bruno to see Sara escape.

* * *

This time the jail sergeant was an older woman who informed her without malice or flexibility that Sara had five minutes, and let her into the cell block.

Grissom's clothes were gone; in their place he wore the standard baggy orange jumpsuit, which did nothing to flatter him. The sight of it sent a nasty twinge through Sara's stomach. _It makes him look...guilty._

Reminding herself that it was just psychology, she strode up to the bars. Grissom's grin was wide, though his eyes looked shadowed, and his fingers wrapped warmly around hers as she put her hands through the bars.

"Hi, honey," he murmured, mouth curling up, and Sara couldn't help smiling back.

"How are you?" she asked, squeezing his hands. "You look tired."

Grissom shrugged. "The gentleman in the next cell chose to serenade us most of the night with selections from, I believe, _Rent._ Unfortunately, if he had any ability to carry a tune he left it behind with his sobriety."

Sara winced, though the humor in his words was clear. "Mr. Saxena stopped by to see me."

"Good." Grissom dipped his head in a nod. "He wanted to talk to you."

"About getting married?" Sara asked, but Grissom frowned.

"I told him that was not an option."

Sara had felt the same way when Saxena had raised the subject, but now she wondered if it wouldn't be a good idea. "Why not? It makes sense."

Grissom took a firmer grip on her hands. "Sweetheart, I would do anything within my power to keep you from having to go through cross-examination if I could. But I don't want to tie you to me--right now."

It was obvious what he meant, and Sara shook her head. "Gil, they're not going to find you guilty."

His lips twitched up the slightest bit. "We can't be sure of that," he said gently.

She glared at him. "I'm _not_ going to just walk away, you know."

"I know." Under better circumstances he would have kissed her, she could tell. "But you don't need the burden of a convicted husband."

Sara's temper was rising, but she didn't let it get away from her. _I refuse to fight in the middle of the jail. _"We'll discuss it later," she said, letting him know that the matter was by no means settled, and the gleam in his eye told her he understood--both her stubbornness and her reasons for putting off the argument.

"Good idea," he agreed.

Sara wanted to tell him about the efforts they were making to find the real killer, but the jail wasn't the place for that, either, not when there were people listening from the other cells. Instead, she switched subjects. "I have some questions about those old files you were telling me about."

Grissom straightened, interest lighting his face. "What do you want to know?"

His case files occupied the rest of their meager time--not necessarily what either of them would have chosen to discuss, but Sara wasn't about to touch on more personal matters knowing that behind her were faces pressed to bars in hopes of catching their conversation. At five minutes on the dot, the sergeant returned.

"Tomorrow?" Grissom asked with a touch of hope in his voice, and Sara smiled at him.

"Soon as they open." She squeezed his hands one last time and pulled her own reluctantly back. Grissom sighed, and Sara tapped her lips with one finger to see him smile again before she turned away.

The kiss would have to wait a while, but she swore it would be delivered.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. All others belong to me, and if you want to borrow them, you have to ask me first. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**Spoilers: through "Bull" **

**Note: this story includes the non-graphic deaths of children.**

**This chapter especially belongs to Laura27md, for betaing above and beyond the call of duty, and Cincoflex, who gave me the key to the chapter. Thank you, ladies. **

**My deepest apologies for not getting this up yesterday. I got home late after a lovely evening out, began preparing to post, and discovered that my Internet connection was down. ****(****sigh****)**** Not my week, I guess... **

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The food was good, but Sara wasn't really tasting her soup. "You guys are going to be short on sleep tonight."

Nick gave her a smile across the booth's table--a genuine one, despite the worry in his eyes. "Relax, Sar. We're big boys."

Warrick snorted softly and dipped a french fry in ketchup. "We're too damn busy right now for anybody to notice anyway." He shot her a look that was part amusement, part apology. "With your sweetie in the clink and Greg on Swing, we're all swamped. I think the only thing keeping Catherine under control is Grissom's paperwork."

Sara rolled her eyes at him, knowing he was just teasing. Meeting them unexpectedly at the jail had been a boost to her spirits; Grissom needed all the visitors he could get. "Is she still pissed at me?"

"Yeah," Warrick answered, but Nick shrugged.

"Kinda." Warrick arched his brows at his friend, and Nick tilted one hand back and forth. "You know how she gets. Intellectually, she knows it's not your fault, but Cath always leads with her emotions."

"They've been friends a long time," Warrick added, as if to excuse Catherine. Sara nodded.

_I can't blame her for being angry at me. Hell, __**I'm**__ angry at me._ "I hope she goes to see him too."

The two men exchanged another glance, both starting to smile. "Well--that's why we asked you to come eat with us," Nick explained. "She said she'd be at the jail right behind us."

Sara had to laugh, and it felt good. "Good. He'll be glad to see her."

Nick shook his head, poking at his sandwich. "This whole thing is so messed up." He looked up and saw her smile vanishing, and hurried on. "Not what you did, Sara, I mean it. It's just--Grissom can't have done it."

"No way," Warrick agreed somberly. "We see all kinds of things on this job, but _him--"_

Sara looked at her friends, grateful for their faith. "The evidence--"

"Screw the evidence," Nick said sharply. "Somebody's trying to get him in trouble."

She shook her head, ruefully amused. "What did Grissom say when you brought it up?"

Warrick chuckled, equally rueful. "What do you think? He told us not to worry about it, that in the end the evidence would show who really killed those kids."

_Typical Gil._ Sara dipped up a spoonful of soup. "Do you believe him?"

Nick blew out a breath. "Dunno. But there's not a lot we can do--Nightshift can't touch the case and we've already had Ecklie threatening to fire us if we come anywhere near it."

"Even Greg won't say anything," Warrick added. "And he's not even on it."

Nick leaned back, abandoning his plate. "It's not like we care what Ecklie says," he went on, his eyes serious. "But there's not a whole hell of a lot we can _do,_ you know? Not without access to the case file."

Sara understood, and smiled at them both, her heart aching a little for the love they bore their supervisor. "I think you're already doing plenty."

* * *

"What did Archie say?" Sara asked.

The three members of Operation Save Grissom were ranged around Greg's kitchen table, both the younger CSIs looking somewhat worn about the edges. Greg sighed.

"Mostly a lot of four-letter words related to the city's IT security budget."

Sara's stomach sank. "The lab's intranet got hacked?"

"By an expert," Greg confirmed. On the other side of the table, Ronnie was working on a report; Greg had been the only one to speak to Archie. "He says there hasn't been any activity for at least three days, but prior to that someone was in and out of the more accessible stuff."

"Including the lab's calendar," Sara guessed darkly, and Greg sighed, idly spinning his half-empty glass of orange juice.

"Yep. E-mail and lab reports are all on a higher-security server, but the non-confidential stuff is, and I quote, 'easier than a drunk on Rohypnol'." He grimaced. "Archie's planning on submitting some kind of report about it."

Sara frowned. "I thought you told him this was a secret!"

Greg waved a hand placatingly. "All I told him was that I was running a little unofficial check on some stuff, and he glommed onto it like it was the latest spy flick. Don't worry--he said he'd come up with some kind of excuse."

Sara sighed, and pushed the plate of sandwiches closer to Ronnie, who took one absently. "Could he trace who was doing the hacking?"

Greg's face fell. "He said it was too late, that we'd have to wait until the hacker came back. I didn't mention that whoever it was doesn't have a reason to show up again." He snorted. "When I left Arch was rigging some kind of electronic trip wire or something."

Rubbing her temples, Sara thought for a moment. The confirmation of an information leak was a plus, but they still had no thread to follow. _It's not like we could have used the lead officially, but at this point I'd settle for just about anything if it would just lead us __**somewhere.**_

"At least, if the intranet was hacked, it means it's not someone _in_ the lab," Ronnie spoke up, capping her pen.

"This is true," Greg agreed, but his expression was unhappy.

Anger sparked. "We've got nothing--we need a lead, a crumb, _something."_ Sara smacked her palm on the table in frustration, ignoring the sting. "Nobody's perfect. The killer had to fuck up somehow."

"They probably did." Greg scrubbed a hand through his hair wearily. "We just haven't caught it because it's not in context."

Ronnie bit her lip, staring at her half-eaten sandwich, and Sara focused on her, recognizing the signs. "What is it, Ron?"

The rookie shifted in her chair. "Um, you know, something occurred to me last night..."

"Yeah?" Greg sat up.

"Well..." Ronnie was blushing, Sara realized. "I was, was thinking about your, um, abduction." She nodded at Sara. "I mean, that wasn't somebody trying to get at you, it was somebody trying to get at Grissom."

"Yeah, but Natalie's locked up in the nut house," Greg said inelegantly, and Sara blinked, taken by the beginning of an idea. But it dodged back into hiding when Ronnie's phone rang.

Ronnie retrieved it from her belt. "Lake."

Neither Sara nor Greg could hear the voice on the other end, but they watched Ronnie's eyes widen and flick towards Sara. "Right," she said after a moment of listening. "I'll be in as soon as I can. Twenty minutes."

She closed the phone, looking baffled. "What is it?" Greg asked. "Something's happened?"

Ronnie didn't look away. "They've found another body."

Sara felt a jolt run through her, half hope, half disbelief. "What, another kid?"

"Yeah." Ronnie started to gather her paperwork. "It looks like it fits the previous dumps, but that's all Vartann said."

Greg shook his head, looking baffled and delighted both. "But that means that Grissom's off the hook--"

"Maybe," Sara cautioned, thinking furiously. "Maybe. It could be just something similar, or even a copycat."

"Or someone trying to prove him innocent?" Greg asked, raising one brow.

Sara hid a wince at the thought of another baby killed in Grissom's name. "We won't know until Ronnie does."

The CSI in question stood and picked up her folder, smiling at both of them despite the fatigue in her posture. "I'll let you know as soon as I can."

Greg saw her out. Sara began wrapping up the leftover sandwiches, trying to summon back the glimmer that Ronnie's comment had sparked, and started slightly when Greg touched her arm.

"You're out of it, Sar, I said your name three times," he informed her cheerfully before taking the covered plate from her hands.

"Sorry," she said absently. "Greg, remember what Ron said just before Vartann called?"

Greg put the sandwiches in his fridge and closed the door. "Natalie was trying to get revenge on Grissom when she kidnapped you."

Sara swore that she could feel her synapses beginning to glow with revelation. "So her theory is that the killer is after _me."_

He snorted, grinning. "The idea is to make the list _shorter,_ not longer."

Sara scarcely heard him. _It's more than a theory._

With a sudden, burning certainty, Sara knew who was framing Grissom, with the intent of getting to _her_. Ronnie had it exactly right; this was precisely Natalie's motivation.

Precisely.

Sara stood. "Excuse me," she told her co-conspirator. "I need to do some research."

The smile that curved her lips was triumphant. "Thanks for lunch, Greg."

As she walked out, she heard Greg's aggrieved mutter behind her. "I hate it when you do that. You're just like Grissom."

She threw him a wave over her shoulder, and let herself out.

* * *

The ride home didn't take long, but it felt like forever to Sara. She parked in the garage and all but ran into the house, barely taking the time to lock the door behind her.

Technically what she was about to do fell into a gray area, but as Sara booted up her laptop she just didn't care. As law enforcement officials, CSIs had access to all kinds of databases, not just criminal ones, and while they did the majority of their research at work, Grissom and Sara both would work from home on occasion. Usually when they had maxed out on overtime, but that was immaterial at the moment.

What mattered was that they had _passwords._

It didn't take long to look up Hannah West. Sara knew about her lawsuit against the county, but hadn't heard how much the settlement had totaled, and the figure made Sara whistle softly. _I guess they didn't want that one made too public. Going up against a thirteen-year-old orphan whose brother died in custody wouldn't have looked too good. _

The settlement meant that regardless of whatever funds she might have already had--and Sara figured that Hannah had been far from poor--she was now modestly wealthy. And if she wanted to use that money on an obsession, as an emancipated minor there was no one and nothing to stop her.

Hannah was still listed as a student at the university, Sara found, but her status was "inactive", and a quick call to the school revealed that the term could apply to someone who was taking a semester off.

Sara sat back and considered the problem. Motive was obvious, as was the intelligence needed to carry out the murders. _She's not a criminalist, but she's smart and she's careful._ And Hannah was nothing if not detail-oriented.

Transportation was an issue, but not an insurmountable one. _She's not old enough to drive, but I bet that with the right makeup and careful driving she could get away with it. _

Or she might have hired someone to do the driving for her. Sara knew quite well that there were plenty of people who would do anything, and look the other way, for enough money.

_Even coming from a teenage girl._

As Greg had said, obtaining Grissom's fingerprints and hair wasn't that much of a challenge. Sara did a quick search, and found that Googling Grissom's name turned up a mention of his lecture in Seattle.

_All but two of the victims were taken within the city. And finding out that Grissom was going to McGill could have been as simple as putting a tail on him. _

Hannah made more sense as a suspect if she was working with an accomplice, but Sara was already certain, based on intuition alone, that Hannah was the killer.

_It fits, it totally fits. She sees me responsible for her brother's death, so she's taking away the person I love in revenge. _

_Her mistake._

The sunlight pouring in through the windows waned as the day went on, but Sara didn't move from her seat on the couch. Her laptop lay closed on the coffee table, abandoned in favor of pure thought.

Intuition was not enough. There had to be some evidence that pointed in Hannah's direction.

_This is all backwards. _Grissom often warned his people about making the evidence fit a theory instead of the other way around. _But all the evidence does is lead back to Grissom. We need another way._

The murder scenes shifted in her mind's eye, back and forth, photos and reports and small pathetic bodies on Dr. Nat's spotless tables. _There's nothing there. I need...I need a fresh angle._

Sara had been able to put herself inside Hannah's mind before, though it had not been a pleasant experience. It was an effort, this time, but Sara stared at the opposite wall and thought about what it was like to be fourteen, and brilliant, and lacking an adult's experience.

She'd been there, after all.

_Hannah had to teach herself forensics. Even if she took college courses, she couldn't have learned enough in a couple of semesters to set up these murders so perfectly. _

A slow smile curved Sara's lips, and she knew it was not a kind one. _Even a genius has to take the time to become an expert. _

She rose and went to find her keys.

The university's library was open to anyone. Sara headed straight for the reference section she wanted; she still had the call numbers memorized, thanks to the forensics classes she'd taken in San Francisco.

There was a fair number of books available, some more advanced than others, and Sara grinned a little when she spotted one that Grissom had co-authored. She skipped the most basic volumes, choosing six that seemed the most likely, and took them to a quiet back corner, well away from librarian eyes.

Her voluminous shoulder bag was big enough to hold a small printing kit. Sara pulled on latex gloves and took the first book off the stack, riffling through it to look for an illustration page.

The glossy paper showed fingerprints even to the unaided eye. Sara smiled again, opened a jar of powder, and began to dust.

Forty-five minutes later, she had a stack of slightly grimy books, a pile of smeared dry wipes, and a memory card full of completely inadmissible photos.

_All I need is a start. If I can put Ronnie on a legitimate trail..._

She replaced the books and walked out of the library, carrying that fragile hope. Just as she beeped open the locks on her Prius, her phone chimed.

It was Ronnie's personal number. "What did you find?" Sara asked.

Ronnie sounded exhausted. "The body's been out there at least a week."

The weight that had lifted slightly with the revelation about Hannah returned. "So it doesn't clear Gil."

"Well, we just got back to the lab. Something might turn up." But her voice held little hope.

"Yeah." Sara let out a slow breath. "How old?"

She could envision the sorrow on Ronnie's face; the rookie's soul was not yet calloused to tragedy. "Four. A little girl."

Sara closed her eyes, accepting the burden. "Get some sleep, Ron," she said after a moment. "And thanks."

She clicked off the phone, and got into her car, wondering if she should call Greg or just stop by his apartment.

She had a memory card to give him.


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. All others belong to me, and if you want to borrow them, you have to ask me first. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**Spoilers: through "Bull" **

**Note: this story includes the non-graphic deaths of children.**

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

"The body dump was the same as all the others," Ronnie said. "It was out on the edge of town, which is why it took so long to be found." She swallowed. "Something found her before we did; Dr. Nat said it was probably coyotes."

Sara suppressed a shudder, remembering the snuffles and growls of the leggy predators during her entrapment in the desert. "But there was a chaplet?"

Ronnie nodded, taking a sip from her soda can. They were in Greg's apartment, gathered around his dining room table, cartons of Thai food scattered across its surface. Sara counted herself fortunate that Greg had not yet pulled his chopsticks-up-the-nose trick; but then, she reflected, maybe Ronnie had already seen it.

Sara hoped so. Once was plenty.

"It wasn't in her hand any longer, but it was close by. And Dr. Nat said she'd be extra careful but not to expect much."

_Not after a week, no._ Technically any new chaplet cases went to Dayshift, but since Dr. Nat had handled most of them, she maintained lead on the bodies at both her insistence and Robbins'.

"All right. Well, we're no worse off than before," Sara said, trying to think positive. "Greg, did you get a chance to run the prints I gave you?"

"Yeah," Greg said tiredly. "I only got two hits." He shoved a printout across the table.

She picked up the paper, scanning quickly. _Thomas Riezen, possession in 2003, and...yes._

_Hannah West. _

"What have they got to do with anything?" he added complainingly.

"What prints?" Ronnie asked, her forehead wrinkling.

Greg snorted. "I don't know. She wouldn't tell me where she got them."

Sara placed the paper on the table, smoothing it absently and smiling. "I pulled them from several forensics books at the WLVU library."

There was a little silence as Greg processed that, and then his mouth dropped open. "Hannah West? That evil little chick framed Grissom?"

"Yeah. She killed Kira Dellinger but we could never prove it, and when her brother killed himself..."

"She blames you." Ronnie looked amazed. "It was just a theory, Sara, I didn't really think...!"

Greg snickered. "Sara's always been an overachiever."

Sara ruffled his hair, making him squawk. "Hey! Leave the 'do alone!"

"She fits," Sara explained to Ronnie, smiling as she watched Greg try to smooth his hair back into place. "She's extremely smart, obsessive, and at this point she's wealthy."

"Yeah, but how the hell did she get the victims' medical records?" Greg demanded.

Sara rolled her eyes. "Greg, she tutors at a university. I'll bet there's at least a dozen hackers right on campus. They could break her into the lab database while they were at it."

"And she's what, thirteen or fourteen? I'll bet that's how she managed to get half those kids," Ronnie said. "Nobody would suspect her."

"Huh," Greg said, his irritation fading. "Neither would the kids. Think about it--parents tell their children to never go with a strange adult, but she's half kid herself. It probably never even occurred to them that she might be a threat."

"Scary," Sara muttered.

"We still have to prove it," Greg said.

"How?" Ronnie asked plaintively. "We haven't found anything that points to her on the bodies, and now that Dr. Grissom's in custody she has no reason to kill any more kids."

"If we could just get a look at her financial records..." Greg began.

"We'd need a warrant," Sara said.

Ronnie sighed, leaning her elbow on the table and putting her chin in her palm. "No evidence, no warrant; no warrant, no evidence."

"The paradox of investigation," Greg agreed, poking dispiritedly through a carton of noodles.

"We need...something," Sara murmured, thinking. "Some reason to justify investigating her."

Greg put down the carton, turning to Sara with his brows drawing together. "Don't tell me you're thinking of planting evidence!"

Sara blinked, then grinned. "No, but that's not a bad idea." At Greg's gape, she snickered. "I'm _joking,_ relax."

Ronnie was smiling tiredly. "Frame the framer?"

"Too easy to get caught," Sara said regretfully, still smirking a little.

"Not to mention what Grissom'd do to us if he found out," Greg mumbled.

He was right, Sara thought with a faint touch of regret; ethics aside, Grissom would be furious if he found out they had planted false evidence. _It's a moot point, though. _

She cast her mind back over the murders, arrays of facts arranging and rearranging themselves in her brain like the molecular models she'd used in college. Attach, detach, turn, attach again...as though, if she did it often enough, some permutation would be exactly the right one.

"The interviews," she said abruptly.

"What?" Greg asked. Sara forced her eyes to focus; the other two were staring at her with slightly puzzled hope.

"The interviews," she repeated, and stood up. "Greg, where are those printouts?"

Greg bounced to his feet and retrieved the stack. It was a thick pile--in desperation, the detectives had interviewed anyone they could think of who might have had some connection, any connection, to the kidnappings.

Sara scrabbled hastily through the papers, wanting to confirm what she remembered. So fragile a clue, and yet--

Joseph Sanchez, the boy whose body had been fumed for fingerprints, had disappeared from a backyard sleepover consisting of twelve small boys. The yard was fenced, but adult supervision had been sporadic. The guests had, of course, been gently questioned as to what had happened to Joseph, but none of them had remembered specifics; typical for a crowd of excited seven-year-olds.

Except, Sara had abruptly remembered, there had been one more child at the party--the four-year-old sister of the young host. As Sara knew, younger sisters were often prone to hanging around the edges of their older brothers' doings, wanting to be a part of things. And little Oona Mallory had done just that.

And the interviewer, in obedient precision, had recorded Oona's statement despite its absurdity. _A beautiful fairy came and took him away. I saw her. She said it was a big secret._

Greg stared down at the paper skeptically. "You can't be serious."

Sara pointed at the relevant sentences. "A beautiful fairy--all Hannah would have to do is _tell_ the kid that she was a fairy, and the four-year-old mind would take care of the rest."

"Yeah, but Sara, it's ridiculous! How do you know she wasn't just making the whole thing up?"

Sara's mouth tightened, but she didn't back down. "I don't. You got a better idea?"

"That's probably what Hannah was counting on," Ronnie interjected, then shrugged at Greg's incredulous look. "If the little girl is telling the truth, that is."

Sara tapped the paper. "It's a start."

Greg sighed. Ronnie pulled the report towards herself, cocking her head to read it. "Are there any similar interviews?" she asked.

They split the stack into thirds and went through it yet again, looking for hints of Hannah. It was almost two hours before Greg tossed his share onto the table with an explosive sigh.

"Half a dozen sightings of people who turned out to have alibis. Nothing that looks like Hannah West." He tilted his chair back onto two legs. "Or Grissom either, for that matter."

Ronnie was still frowning at her pages. "I've got someone who reported seeing a teenager hanging out around the Yakima day care talking on a cellphone, but there's no real description."

"Would Hannah be strong enough to saw through that fence?" Greg asked dubiously.

"Given time, yeah," Sara said. She was still holding in reserve the idea that Hannah might have an accomplice, though the longer she thought about it the less likely it seemed.

"You got anything?" Greg asked Sara, faintly challenging.

Sara gave him a grin and held out another report. "According to Officer Turlough of Moapa, Gavin George's mother saw him giving directions to a, and I quote, 'young girl' just ten minutes before he disappeared."

He dipped his head, conceding, but his expression was still skeptical. "That's not gonna get you a warrant. It's not even reasonable doubt."

"Not by itself," Sara said slowly. "But..."

Ronnie regarded her curiously. "What?"

Sara didn't answer right away. She was contemplating what she could add to the feather weight of the interviews that might tip the balance in their favor. It was a serious, even risky, gamble.

_But what the hell. What else do people do in Vegas? _

She blew out a breath. "Here's the thing, guys," she said quietly. "This--" She gestured at the papers. "--is all we've got. There won't be any more murders, so that means no new evidence. If we're going to catch her, it'll be based on this, and time is not our friend." Time, in fact, brought Grissom closer every day to a trial that would not only irrevocably ruin his career, but threaten his very life.

"So what are we going to do?" Greg asked quietly, adding the barest stress to _we_.

Sara grinned, straight at Ronnie. "You're going to interview me."

Ronnie frowned, and then started to smile, eyes crinkling. "Nobody did interview you, did they?"

Sara shrugged, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair, though not to Greg's dangerous degree. "Well, the brass did, but not the way you mean."

Greg snorted with laughter. "You mean, here you are the significant other of the main suspect, and no one remembered to bring _you_ in for questioning?"

"We've been kind of busy," Ronnie said defensively, and Sara intervened before Greg could reply.

"Well, you can remedy that this evening. I'll even come in voluntarily." The plan was firming rapidly in her head.

"We could go now if you'd rather," Ronnie began, but Sara shook her head.

"It's really up to the lead detective, and besides, I have something else to do beforehand."

Greg stared at her, eyes narrow. "You're up to something."

"Yeah." Sara bit her lip. "Yeah, I am." She looked at them both, Greg's amused curiosity, Ronnie's alertness. Fatigue was starting to dog the younger woman, Sara noticed; Ronnie was probably working overtime on this case, plus the secret meetings. Sara resolved to wrap up the ongoing one quickly so Ronnie could at least catch a nap.

"What we're going to do," she explained, "is use Grissom's reputation to create enough doubt that we can get some kind of fishing expedition for Hannah West. The Natalie Davis case will actually help us there; if it happened once, it can happen again."

She pushed away thoughts of the pathetic madwoman and waited for her companions' reactions.

"How?" Greg demanded. "Don't you think everyone already considered it before they arrested him?"

"No." Sara shook her head. "They were following the evidence, Greg, just like me." She took a deep breath. "We'll start with the interview. And then, if we have to, we'll go to Dr. Reyes. If nothing else, she'll hear us out."

Ronnie flinched slightly; Sara guessed that she hadn't expected the revelation of her double dealings to come so soon. But she didn't protest.

Greg looked doubtful. "Is that gonna be enough? Sara, they're already convinced he did it."

"It'll have to be." Sara raised her chin, burying her doubts. "There's nothing else we can do."

* * *

That wasn't strictly true, Sara reflected later, after she'd bid her co-conspirators goodbye and changed her clothes. She herself could go after Hannah West on her own, assuming she could find the girl, and see what she could find out.

_But I want Grissom clear and free without any doubt. Anything I find out on my own will be inadmissible in court. _She blessed the elimination of the rule that had stated that any LVPD member arrested--whether on charges proven or not--would lose their job automatically.

She drove to the jail thinking over their shaky plan, running scenarios and ramifications through her head. She would ask Ronnie one more time if the girl was sure about going ahead with it. _When we started this, getting caught was only a maybe. This'll be a sure thing. _

The big sergeant she had seen before escorted her in again, but his silence was uncomfortable, and Sara couldn't figure out why. This time, he guided her to a small and dingy room with two chairs, one on either side of a battered table that was bolted to the floor. The visiting room.

"Have a seat, ma'am," the sergeant rumbled. "The prisoner'll be in in a minute."

Sara sat down, trying to compose herself. She couldn't tell Grissom what she and Greg and Ronnie were going to do, not when other ears were listening, but she wanted to give him some sense of hope--

The door opened, and Grissom came in, escorted by two officers. His hands were cuffed in front of him, but Sara barely noticed the restraints.

Grissom's face was scraped and battered, one eye swollen nearly shut and his lips split. His posture was slightly hunched, as if it hurt to straighten, and peeking out from the sleeves of the orange jail jumpsuit were bruises that looked an awful lot like defensive wounds.

Horror swept through her. Sara choked, and kept herself from jumping up, but only barely. "Gil--"

Grissom's good eye flashed a warning, and then one officer was pulling out the empty chair for him while the other took up a station near the door. Grissom sat stiffly, and rested his hands on the tabletop.

Sara reached for them, but the guarding officer shook his head. "No contact with the prisoner," he said in a bored tone. When Sara halted her reach, he stepped back and leaned against the wall behind Grissom, his implication clear.

Grissom's eye rested on Sara hungrily, but his smile was small and pained. "Sara."

Fury and panic were both rising in her. "Gil, what the hell happened?" she asked tightly, trying to keep her voice low.

His lips twitched, and he winced at the pull. "I tripped," he said, his voice so laden with irony that it could have been used as a cell bar.

Outraged, Sara sucked in a breath, but the minute shake of Grissom's head forestalled her explosion. She controlled herself with an effort; obviously not all the jail personnel were as sympathetic as the desk sergeant.

"Are you all right?" she managed after a moment, and saw his face relax slightly in relief.

"I'm fine." Clearly an exaggeration, but Sara trusted him enough to figure that his injuries were superficial. "Are you?"

Sara nodded. "Has Saxena seen you?" she asked, placing a slight emphasis on the third word and knowing that Grissom would understand what she meant.

"Yes," and Grissom's small smile returned, this time with an edge of dark humor. His lawyer knew what had happened, and Sara guessed that Saxena was storing up the abuse as ammunition for later. "How are things going?"

Sara cocked her head. "Pretty well," she allowed, letting a hint of a smile creep onto her own face. "I'm...keeping busy."

Grissom nodded. "Are you back at work yet?"

"No. I've got enough on my plate right now."

His eyes softened. "Don't forget to take care of yourself."

The surge of love and longing was so strong that Sara almost leaned over the table to kiss him, watchers be damned. But she didn't want Grissom to suffer for her insubordination later, or to be banned from visiting him. "Don't worry. Greg's keeping an eye on me."

The brow above his good eye arched a fraction. "I'm glad someone is."

Normally she would have snorted, but Sara let it go this time. "Have they set a trial date yet?"

Grissom nodded. "Three weeks from tomorrow."

Sara bit her lip against a flood of dismay. "That's...quick."

He shrugged carefully. "Media pressure, I imagine; this case is an embarrassment to the city. The sooner they have it over with, the better it will look for them."

"I know." Now was not the time for a rant about politics taking precedence over justice. Sara wanted to pace, to yell, to grab Grissom and pull him out of the ugly little room and the jail and the whole tangled, stinking mess.

But the only thing she could do was what she was already doing.

"Is there anything I can bring you? Anything you need?" she asked, at a loss. The presence of the guards silenced all she wanted to say, but Sara didn't want to leave him. _How long before he "trips" again? And what if it's worse? _

"My spare glasses would be nice," Grissom replied, looking as rueful as his bruised face would allow. "Mine broke."

Sara nodded impassively, knowing without his saying so just _how_ they had been broken. "I'll get them to you as soon as I can."

"How's Harry?" Grissom asked. Helpless, they chatted for a few minutes about Grissom's buggy pets, stiffly conscious of the guards listening to every word. It was impossible to say anything of consequence, let alone loving, but Grissom managed somehow to let her know what he was feeling all the same. Expert at reading the subtleties of his expression, Sara saw love and worry there--worry for her, not himself.

She briefly considered fingerspelling him her theory concerning Hannah West, but the guard behind him was watching too closely for their hands to go unnoticed.

He would just have to trust that she was working on it.

It was far too soon when the guard at the door stirred, and the one behind Grissom straightened. "Time's up."

He pulled Grissom to his feet, not ungently, and Sara stood too, unable to say all the things that she wanted to--_Don't worry, I miss you, please be all right, I love you._

Grissom cocked his head at her and lifted his bound hands, touching his forefinger to his lips in a quick gesture. Sara's vision blurred, and she did the same. A kiss deferred.

She was suddenly conscious that they might not get a chance to fulfill the silent promise, and anger cleared the mist of tears from her eyes. _Hell no. That's not going to happen._

The guard tugged on Grissom's arm, and he turned away obediently. Sara stood and watched him go, calm and undefeated despite the chain and the bruises, and felt her determination renewed.

_I'm going to clear you, Gil. That's a promise too._

* * *

The expression on her face cleared the corridor in front of her despite its busyness. Sara stalked away from the jail wing and towards the main offices of the police department, knowing that her glare was fit to frighten small children and feeling perversely pleased about it. Fury could be used as a tool.

It was far too early for Brass to be in his office, so Sara stepped into one of the breakrooms--one fortuitously empty of people--and opened her cellphone, punching in the captain's home number. The fact that he was most likely sleeping deterred her not at all.

But his voice didn't sound sleepy when he answered. "Brass."

"He's hurt, Jim." She kept her tone low and vicious. "Someone beat him up. You said he'd be okay, what the hell _happened?"_

Brass' growl was equally angry, but not at her. "I don't know for sure, but you can bet I'm in the process of finding out."

Sara's hand clenched on the phone. "Someone slammed his head into a wall, it looks like--"

"I know." His voice was tight. "But he won't tell me who did it, and nobody else is talking either. I can't put 'em all on report at once, but--"

Sara hissed, her anger expanding to include Grissom even though she knew why he was refusing to name who had attacked him. She knew it was irrational, that the only way for him to escape retribution was to remain silent, but it didn't make the situation any easier to deal with. "Is there anything you can do, someplace you can put him?"

"No." The word was flat, and tired. "Keeping him solo in a cell is a courtesy in and of itself, and hard to do when we're this busy. I've already read the jail team the riot act, but if he won't give up his attacker there's not a lot I can do."

Only the fact that she knew Brass was as upset as she kept Sara from snapping at him. "All right." She let out a breath. "But, dammit--"

"It won't happen again," Brass promised darkly. But Sara couldn't quite believe him; he'd already promised once that nothing would happen.

"It had better not," she answered, then caught sight of the clock on the breakroom wall and swore. "Jim, I have to go."

"Yeah. I'll see you soon. Keep your chin up, huh?"

"I will." Sara closed the phone and hurried out into the hall.

Vartann was waiting when Sara reached the interview room, but he shook his head at Sara when she arrived. "I'm still waiting on Lake, so take your time."

Sara sat down at the table, watching Vartann fold his long limbs into a chair opposite. "They're letting you do the interview?"

He shrugged. "You're not a suspect, and I've been off the night shift for over a year. Face it, Sidle, you've worked with just about every detective on the force at one time or another. Impartial ain't gonna happen."

He hooked an elbow over the back of his chair, looking affable, and Sara relaxed a little, resting her hands on the table. She was going to have to be careful; she was too used to being the questioner in such a situation. The mirrored window was a bit distracting; it was usually more or less out of her line of sight.

Cocking her head the slightest bit, Sara let her eyes widen in inquiry, and Vartann tipped his own head down a fraction. Yes, there were likely to be watchers behind the glass. Ecklie, Sara guessed, and perhaps Reyes.

The door opened and Ronnie bustled through, clutching a file and a notepad and looking distinctly distracted, though she slowed and made a visible effort to settle her feathers. Sara approved, conditionally; Ronnie should have calmed herself before entering, but at least she was trying. This whole case had to be cruelly hard on the young CSI, and she was coping extremely well, all things concerned.

Ronnie took the chair next to Vartann, and the detective began the interview with the usual reassurances--Sara wasn't under arrest, she didn't need counsel unless she wanted it, she was free to leave at any time, and so forth. It all felt a bit farcical, but Sara kept her spine straight and her attention sharp. This was the beginning of her plan, and a lot depended on it.

_Please be watching, Julia,_ she thought fervently. _Please._

Vartann went on to ask about Grissom--his habits, his recent behavior and moods, whether he had shown any hint of abnormality. Sara gave a firm _no_ to each question, hoping that her own reputation as an investigator would counterbalance her emotional involvement.

The detective shifted forward in his seat, a cue that the questioning was about to get more personal. "Are you sure? 'Cause you're the one who put him where he is now."

Sara pressed her lips together, glaring; that shot had hurt. There was no apology in Vartann's eyes, though; he was doing his job, and doing it thoroughly.

"I followed the evidence," she said calmly. "But it's mostly circumstantial. If this case weren't so high-profile, Grissom wouldn't even have been arraigned yet."

Vartann's sneer consigned her argument to the reject pile. "We have his fingerprints and his hair--that's a lot more than circumstantial."

Sara did not allow herself to be drawn into a debate about that hair; it was irrelevant in this context. Vartann was trying to rattle her, to see if she was concealing anything in an effort to protect Grissom. "I presented my findings to my superior," she stated flatly, leaving out all the anguish and doubt. "But I have seen no evidence in Grissom himself to support the charges."

"No unexplained absences? No odd purchases?" Vartann fired back. "I find it real hard to believe that you didn't see _anything."_

"Believe it," Sara said firmly. "Run his financials, hell, run mine. There's nothing there."

Ronnie was scribbling furiously on her notepad, and Vartann tipped his head in the CSI's direction. "We will."

His threatening look didn't abate, and Sara knew the technique quite well--it was supposed to make even the innocent worry about what might turn up. But Sara had no fears.

Taking the lead, she sat forward a bit, resting her hands on the table but keeping her spine straight. _"Doctor_ Grissom has given this lab many years of sterling service," she said, soft but clear, stressing the title. "He's shown no indications of homicidal behavior before. And if he _were_ to...snap, and..." Her throat closed up, and Sara swallowed. "He wouldn't do it _here._ He's smarter than that."

Vartann leaned back, bracing one fist on his hip and looking contemptuous. "You got any better theories, then?"

He obviously didn't expect any, but Sara lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. "Yes. He's being framed."

To his credit, the detective didn't laugh, though his eyes widened. Ronnie's hand tightened nervously on her pen, but Sara kept her attention on Vartann, praying that the person or persons behind the glass was listening.

Her statement was ludicrous on the face of things, a theory straight out of classic mystery novels and thriller films, but the phantoms of Natalie Davis and Ernie Dell stood silent proof that such things could happen. True, Dell had framed himself, but in Sara's opinion that made her theory that much more credible by contrast.

"By whom?" Vartann finally said, more confused than incredulous, which surprised Sara a little. She opened her mouth, but before she could answer, the door opened, revealing Dr. Reyes.

"Ms. Sidle, please come with me," she said in a tone that brooked no protest.

Sara knew that Ronnie and Vartann were exchanging glances of surprise and speculation, but this was just what Sara had been hoping for. She rose and followed Reyes out.

The swing shift supervisor said nothing as they started down the corridor, not even when Ecklie joined them. Reyes just kept walking at a pace that reminded Sara of a steamroller in high gear, and people got out of their way in a hurry.

They went straight to Reyes' office, not Ecklie's, which Sara found telling, and Reyes didn't even bother to take a seat, just leaning against her desk and folding her arms. Ecklie, frowning curiously, braced one hand on a desk corner and set the other on his hip, obviously willing to let Reyes take the lead.

"Why do I get the feeling I've been set up?" Reyes asked grimly.

Sara turned her hands palm up. "Would you have listened to me if I came in privately?"

Reyes hesitated for a long moment. "I'm...not sure," she finally said, which was more than Sara expected.

"There you go," Sara answered, all but holding her breath and hoping, hoping...

Reyes wrinkled up her face into a horrible scowl, then blew out her breath. "All right then. Explain."

Sara did, hoping that Reyes knew enough about the West cases for her theory to make sense. She managed to leave Ronnie out of it, apologizing silently for stealing credit for the revenge idea, though she did mention that she and Greg had discussed the case. He might receive a slight reprimand for it, but it wasn't his case and Sara wasn't a suspect, so technically it wasn't against the rules.

Neither Reyes nor Ecklie interrupted as Sara talked; the latter squinted at her as though he didn't quite believe her, but Sara didn't let that slow her down. She mentioned the cobweb connections of Oona Mallory's account and Mrs. George's interview, building a gossamer case out of suspicions and possibilities, then added the fingerprints she'd pulled from the books, leaving it delicately unsaid how exactly she'd compared them.

Eventually Sara had to stop herself before she began repeating. She was used to giving case summaries, but she'd never broken her habit of overtalking when nervous, and it was vital that she remain calm and professional just now.

The silence that fell when she finished could only be described as "pregnant", and it seemed an eternity to Sara before Ecklie sighed and broke it. "You know, Sidle, coming from anyone else I would say this is a paranoid fantasy. You realize of course that as Grissom's fiancée you have no credibility at all?"

Sara folded her arms, ignoring the compliment hidden in his words. "That's why I'm here."

His nod was grudging, but real. Next to him, Reyes sighed in turn. "The phrase 'can of worms' barely begins to cover this situation. We'd be accused of favoritism, and the accusers would be quite correct."

Sara's heart sank. "Then you're not going to follow it up?"

Reyes turned to look at Ecklie. "Well?"

He straightened away from the desk, his expression sour. "I don't see how we can't."

Sara blinked, and her pulse leapt. Reyes' smile was rueful. "The evidence you've presented is circumstantial, but so is most of the present case against Grissom. I don't think we have a choice either."

"But we'll have to be careful," Ecklie broke in. "If it gets out that you did the investigation on this--"

He didn't have to finish. Such a revelation would seriously damage the reputation of the lab, opening it to accusations of partiality and tampering with evidence. Sara shook her head. "You can give credit to anybody you like, as long as you follow up."

She almost laughed at the expressions flickering across Ecklie's face--desire bordering on greed, calculation, resignation. "You or me?" he asked Reyes.

Reyes' mouth twitched with a hint of humor. "It had better be you," she said. "It's your shift's case now."

Ecklie's eyes brightened, but he had the grace to keep his pleasure to himself. "All right."

Reyes nodded. "That's settled. Sara, thank you for bringing this to our attention."

Sara knew a dismissal when she heard one. "Wait a minute, I--"

Reyes shook her head. "You know you can't be involved in this any further," she said firmly.

She was right, but the knowledge galled. Sara closed her mouth on angry words. "Yeah."

Reyes' face softened. "I promise, we'll do all we can."

Sara shut her eyes, nodded, and wondered if there was any way to let Grissom know.

_Or any point. If this doesn't work..._

"Go home and get some sleep, Sidle," Ecklie said, his voice only a little dry, and Sara opened her eyes to see him looking at her with sardonic compassion. "I admit that it'll be great to have Grissom owe me a favor, but getting him out of jail and back in the lab is more important."

It was easy to forget, sometimes, that Ecklie could be human. Sara nodded again.

"If he _is_ innocent," Ecklie added, then held up a hand at Sara's glare. "I know, I know. But until we get a firm answer one way or the other..."

"Go home, Sara," Reyes repeated. "Let us do our jobs."

Sara let out a breath. "If you guys need anything--"

"We'll call," Reyes assured her, still gentle.

There was nothing else to do but go.


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. All others belong to me, and if you want to borrow them, you have to ask me first. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**Spoilers: through "Bull" **

**Note: this story includes the non-graphic deaths of children.**

**Cincoflex. Laura27md. Couldn't do this without them. **

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

The sun was merciless, but the only concession Sara had made was a lot of sunscreen and Grissom's straw hat. She hacked at the ground with a trowel, dripping with sweat and streaked with dirt, concentrating fiercely on the garden she had in her head. Las Vegas' climate was not naturally conducive to vegetables, but with enough watering...

It had been two days since Sara had made her plea to Dr. Reyes and Ecklie, and she had heard nothing more...officially.

Unofficially, Ronnie had reported that the CSIs assigned to Grissom's case were running Hannah West's financials. It wasn't much, but if they found anything of interest, it might open the door to a warrant or at least an interview.

Not that Sara placed much hope in the latter; Hannah was an expert at twisting people's words.

Sara gradually softened the dry soil. The garden was an excuse at this point--a distraction. It had been on her list of things to do someday, maybe, and Grissom had talked about renting a gas-powered tiller to start the bed when she got that far. But he wasn't there, and the house was spotless, and Sara knew she had to find _something_ to do or go mad.

Or go hunt Hannah down herself, which was not a good idea at all, satisfying as it might be.

She'd gone in to see Grissom each day; but they were allowed only a few minutes of guarded conversation. He seemed cheerful to her worried eyes; a bit tired, but less stressed than Sara expected.

In his place, she would have been climbing the walls, through sheer frustration if nothing else. Her one consolation was that he reported that every law enforcement officer was treating him with the utmost respect.

_I wonder what, exactly, Jim said to them._

His bruises were healing, at least.

Sara swiped at the sweat trickling down her face, knowing that she was leaving a muddy streak and not caring. There was no one to see. Digging the trowel deep into the soil, she kept going, hoping drearily that the heat and effort might exhaust her enough to sleep for more than a few hours. Between the tension and her worry over Grissom--not to mention an empty bed--she was getting barely enough sleep to function. Fresh nightmares--smothered babies, Grissom strangled in his cell--catapulted her from unconsciousness with exhausting regularity.

She had cleared about half her planned space when her cellphone buzzed in the dry grass an arm's length away. Sara snatched it up and flipped it open with one motion, not bothering to glance at the caller ID. "Sidle."

"We got a break." Ronnie's voice was breathless, and strained with the effort of keeping it low.

Sara tossed aside her trowel, heat and sweat suddenly forgotten. "What is it?"

"Remember that last body? Out on the edge of town?" The question was rhetorical, and Sara made an assenting noise to move Ronnie along. The rookie's indrawn breath hissed in her ear. "Some new evidence just turned up."

Starved hope began to well up. "Oh?"

"Yeah." Ronnie's voice dropped even further, and Sara surmised that she was calling from either a scene or the lab. "A couple of scientists saw the news about the latest murder and brought in some video footage. They're studying coyote populations in urban areas, and they were using night-vision cameras right near where the last body was placed."

Sara felt her eyes widen. "They caught something?"

"Oh yeah." There was excitement beneath Ronnie's hushed tone. "They're motion-sensitive cameras--infra-red, not flash. Anyway, they got a pretty good shot of someone carrying the body, and it's way too short to be Grissom."

"Does Vartann know?" Sara kept her voice even with an effort--yelling with impatience would not help.

"He's on his way in. There's no positive I.D., but it definitely excludes Dr. Grissom."

Every muscle in Sara's body tightened, as if all her wires were being pulled taut. "What did Ecklie say?"

Ronnie's soft breath stood in for a laugh. "He gave one of those big sighs of his and said 'It figures,' and then said he was going to go call the D.A."

_Good for you, Conrad._ Sara was familiar with Ecklie's self-congratulatory ways, and at the moment she would let him praise himself all day long if it got Grissom out of that jail cell. "Good. Maybe he and Vartann can convince her to drop the charges."

"I hope so." Ronnie sighed. "Look, Sara, I have to go, I'm supposed to be processing the new Baby Doe's clothes."

"Thanks, Ron," Sara said, remembering her manners belatedly. Her mind was racing, yearning towards Grissom. "We'd be totally screwed without you."

She could almost _hear_ the rookie's blush. "Well, I'm glad I can help. Ooops, talktoyoulaterbye!"

The beep of disconnection followed almost immediately, and Sara figured that Ronnie had seen someone coming. She closed the phone and picked up her bottle of water, chugging most of it in a few big gulps before climbing to her feet. Her knees were stiff with the long kneeling, but Sara barely noticed. _I have to wait until someone legit calls me. But I can get ready. _

Her shower was thorough but fast, and her phone sat on the edge of the sink so she could hear it if it rang. But it refused to do so.

And refused.

And refused.

After two hours, Sara thought she might go completely insane. _Noisily, probably. I wonder if the neighbors would call the cops if I started screaming? _

She knew it would take time for information to be relayed, for decisions to be made; even if Ecklie and Vartann between them talked the D.A. into reviewing Grissom's case, it could be hours yet before anything was done. _For all I know, they might not even deal with it until tomorrow._

She halted in her pacing to glance nervously at the lowering sun. If it got too late, and the courts closed...

The sudden ring of the phone made her start--not her cell, but the house line. Sara snatched it up, then forced herself to take a deep breath and answer in as normal a voice as she could manage. "Hello?"

"Ms. Sidle, Bhupendra Saxena here," came the lawyer's calm voice. "There's been a development in Dr. Grissom's case."

And Grissom had asked Saxena to call, Sara was sure. "Yes?" she asked, not bothering to suppress her anxiety.

"New evidence has been uncovered, and a motion has been put forth to release Dr. Grissom on bail." He chuckled slightly. "Somehow I do not think this is news to you."

"On bail? Not free?" Sara was too impatient to react to his comment. "Why?"

Saxena hummed, a resigned noise. "I'm told that the evidence does not clear him entirely, merely throws some doubt upon the investigation. I'm pushing for an expedited process, but it may still take some time."

Sara frowned. "It doesn't clear him? I thought--"

"D.A. Krikson is arguing that Dr. Grissom could be employing an accomplice." Sara grimaced; the supposition did make sense, in a twisted sort of way. "The fact that the evidence against him is mostly circumstantial is not helping her case, however."

_It's __**all**__ circumstantial,_ Sara wanted to say, but didn't. "When will you know?"

"We are looking at court schedules right now." A muffled voice spoke in the background, and Saxena replied with an answer Sara couldn't quite make out. "I must go."

He gave her a polite goodbye and Sara hung up. Then, moving swiftly, she left the house.

* * *

Forty minutes later, she was fuming in Brass' office. "They won't let me in to see Grissom," she complained, tapping the top of his desk impatiently.

His tone was mild in reply. "It _is_ past visiting hours, you know." He leaned one hand on his desk opposite hers. "Why don't you sit down? It could be a while."

With an effort, Sara kept herself from glaring at him and plopped down onto the little sofa that took up the back of his office. All of a sudden she felt very tired, the hours in the sun and the strain of weeks catching up with her. "Sorry," she said, a bit ungraciously.

Brass' snort was gentle. "If you weren't here I might be worried." He glanced at his watch. "Be right back."

He walked out, then returned in minutes with a cup of fresh tea, which he made her take. "I'd drug it if I thought I could get away with it," he remarked dryly as he handed her the cup. "When's the last time you slept?"

Sara shrugged at him, not bothering to reply, and Brass rolled his eyes and moved around his office, closing the blinds. "I'm going to go see what I can find out. Will you stay here so I can find you if I need you?"

"...Sure." There wasn't anything else she could do, anyway, but wait; sometimes being out of the loop really sucked.

Brass patted her shoulder and left without another word, closing the door behind him.

At least the tea gave her something to do while she waited; it was hot and sweet, and put a little warmth back into her fingers. Sara's vision kept blurring, and she blinked and blinked, but her eyes were sandy with fatigue, and she had to set down the cup and lean back, had to let her head rest against the cushions.

_Just for a few minutes._

* * *

She was warm and reasonably comfortable, but someone was saying her name, dragging her from the pit of sleep with a squeeze of her hand. Feeling gradually returned to her body, and Sara realized blearily that she was lying curled on a soft surface, a blanket covering her from toes to neck. Her hand dangled free, though, and--

Her eyes sprang open. Grissom was crouched next to the sofa, his eyes soft and worried and amused all at once. "Sara?"

Air wasn't reaching her lungs fast enough. Sara shot upright, and then they were locked together, the tightest embrace she'd ever experienced and every inch of it welcome. Grissom squeezed her so hard that Sara felt her ribs creak, but she didn't care. He smelled of harsh soap and stress, but underneath was the essence she loved, the subtly indescribable scent of the man himself.

She closed her eyes against tears, and slid her hands up and down his back, unable to stop lest he melt from her arms like a dream. Grissom rocked her back and forth, just slightly; he said nothing, but she could feel his heart pounding.

When his shoulders heaved in a long sigh, she pulled back and reached up to cup his face, feeling the scratch of a few days' worth of beard. "Gil--"

His fingers covered her lips then slid down her arms until he was holding her again. "Shh. Let's--let's just go home."

She couldn't stop her smile, and his own answered it, and then their lips met and clung in a hungry sweet caress. Sara's heart swelled, and her head ballooned with sudden lightness as all the weight she'd carried fell away.

When they opened the door Brass was leaning against the opposite wall, pretending he didn't care about what was going on in his office, but his smirk at the sight of their joined hands betrayed him. "Back door," he said casually with a jerk of his head in that direction. "All the reporters are out front."

Grissom's lips twitched. "Who tipped them off?"

"They've got an insider at the courthouse. Tonight you get a free pass; tomorrow you gotta deal with 'em like the rest of us." The captain's eyes were twinkling with amusement.

Sara snorted. "Thanks, Jim." She tugged on Grissom's hand, and he followed her obediently, exchanging a glance with Brass that said a lot without any words at all.

The sun was down; they emerged into the dim alley that bordered the police station and made their way to Sara's car. More than a few people had watched them pass through the building, but fortunately none of them had seemed interested in conversation; Sara was grateful. There would be time enough for explanations tomorrow.

She drove him home in a silence that was full of things they would talk about later. For now, it was enough to be together, for Grissom to be out of the tiny entrapping cell.

Sara parked her car in the garage, and led Grissom inside, straight up to the master bath. Still silent, she removed his clothes with loving concentration, then let him help her strip as well. When the shower water was hot, she bathed him from head to toe, cleansing them both of the long days of strain and fear.

Grissom closed his eyes in pleasure as she scrubbed shampoo through his hair, which always made her smile; she delighted over every inch of his sturdy body, though residual rage and guilt still smoldered when she rinsed his fading bruises. Sara laid a kiss on each one, as if she could heal them with her lips alone.

When he was clean and dry, Grissom took her hand and pulled her into the bedroom, and into a hug. "I missed you," he whispered against her cheek.

Sara kissed his chin, then caught his mouth for a deeper caress. "Missed you too--Gil--"

His hands slid into her wet hair and held her still for another kiss. Sara let him fill her senses before she guided them both to the bed and proved how much she had missed him.

* * *

The room was dark, but they didn't really need their eyes. Grissom had piled a couple of pillows against the headboard so that he could sit up a little, and now cradled Sara against himself, her head resting on his chest. She couldn't keep herself from stroking his arm, feeling the muscles under warm skin; tangible proof.

It hadn't taken long to explain it all, to lay out her suspicions and reasons. Grissom listened in silence, his body warm and relaxed under hers, open and accepting as no one else ever had been. When she had finished, he was quiet for a while, then finally sighed and spoke.

"It makes sense. You're quite right about her motive, and from what Bhupendra tells me the figure in the video is just her height. And I guess there's no reason to ask why she did it." He cocked his head, his short beard brushing her forehead. "I'd be very interested to see the report on her financials."

Sara's body was heavy with relaxation, but her mind still could not rest. "Gil--" she began again, but his arms tightened.

"If you try to apologize one more time..." There was humor in his voice.

She shook her head, guilt still cankering in her stomach. "I didn't _trust_ you! Gil, how can you--" She had to stop and swallow.

He gave her a tiny shake. "Sara. You did exactly what you were supposed to do. You followed the evidence."

"Yeah, right into her trap," Sara said bitterly.

"She knew us both too well," Grissom said, his palm smoothing over her shoulder in a reassuring caress. "The trap was designed for you, sweetheart, but you were too smart for it."

Sara sniffed, not convinced. "It was Greg who figured out you were being framed," she confessed.

Grissom chuckled. "That's why he's a CSI. But you figured out who, and why, didn't you?"

"Yeah." Sara sighed, eyes open in the dark as though there were answers printed on the air. "But I put you in that cell."

"No. Hannah did," Grissom said firmly. "Don't you understand, Sara? I don't blame you _because_ you did what was right. If you had ignored the evidence because you didn't think I could be the killer..."

"What if I'd figured out the frame part earlier?" she interrupted, squirming around to face him even though he was no more than a vague shape in front of her.

His hand touched her face unerringly, curving around in a touch so tender that her heart swelled. "Then you would have been justified in doubting." Grissom let out a breath, and Sara knew he was smiling at her, the soft proud smile that always strengthened her. "I know you love and trust me, and I know that neither your love nor your trust is given blindly. Which makes them all the more precious to me."

There was something in her throat, and she couldn't breathe. Sara laid her head down on Grissom's shoulder, and for the first time since doubt had crept in she cried hard, weeping out her guilt and anguish and fury. Grissom didn't try to quiet her; he just held her tightly, giving her the comfort she needed so much, and she knew that it was only because he was there that she could let go.


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. All others belong to me, and if you want to borrow them, you have to ask me first. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**Spoilers: through "Bull" **

**Note: this story includes the non-graphic deaths of children.**

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

"What do you mean, she wasn't there?"

Actually, Sara knew exactly what Vartann meant, but her anger was too hot for her to let his statement slide. The tall detective shot her a wary look and shrugged, holding both hands out in a placating gesture.

"She was out. Her neighbor said Hannah's usually out this time of day."

Grissom slid a hand over Sara's, gripping it warmly, and spoke with the calmness Sara couldn't find. "By now you'll have to assume she's in the wind."

The two of them had returned to the police station for an informal briefing, after spending their first morning reunited with a leisurely breakfast and not a lot of conversation. Vartann was obviously trying to find the thin line between treating them both as ordinary victims and as colleagues, and not having much success.

The detective nodded, weariness deepening the lines of his face, and Sara guessed that he hadn't been to bed at all. "Between her financials and the videos from that research group, and a friendly judge, we managed to get the warrant, but she just wasn't there. I'm sorry."

"What did her financials reveal?" Grissom asked with what seemed to be academic interest.

Vartann's mouth twisted, but he gave in after only a slight hesitation. "Regular deposits into a Paypal account. She made purchases using that from a number of wholesale jewelry companies online. Apparently she thought we wouldn't look any further than her main accounts."

Sara nodded slowly, her anger settling down to a slow burn with the squeeze of Grissom's fingers. "That fits. Hannah's smart, but she's not experienced. She read up on forensics, but..."

Grissom took up her statement. "Forensic accounting is a specialized area of study, and most practitioners start out as accountants, not criminalists. It probably never even occurred to her that the police would look more closely."

Vartann sighed, relaxing somewhat. "It looks that way," he agreed. "The preliminary pass at her place didn't turn up anything immediately suspicious, but odds are she has some kind of secondary base of operations. Dayshift is looking at her papers now."

_Good luck, Ronnie,_ Sara thought. However suspicious the Paypal statements were, they were still nowhere near enough to actually arrest Hannah; the police were looking for her to question her, but without solid physical proof they could do little more. But Vartann and the others were also breaking protocol and going on the assumption that she was guilty.

"I guess we won't know until we find her." Sara pursed her lips.

Vartann shrugged. "We're doing what we can."

He had no further news for them, and Sara and Grissom said their goodbyes, emerging into the usual busy corridor of the station. Grissom touched her arm to stop her.

"I'd like to stop by Brass' office and leave a message for him; do you mind?"

"Nope." Brass' den was on the other side of the building, and Sara's knees still ached a little from her digging the day before. She pointed at a bench along the wall. "I'll wait for you there."

"Okay." Grissom squeezed her hand and set off, and Sara took a seat on the bench and set her purse down beside her hip, her mind returning to the knotty problem of Hannah.

_If Dayshift doesn't turn something up we're screwed._ The fact that Grissom could easily be returned to jail was never far from the surface of her thoughts. The evidence against him was circumstantial, true--Sara was convinced that the fingerprints had been faked--but so was the evidence against Hannah so far, and there was far more of it piled up against Grissom.

She entertained a brief fantasy of the two of them fleeing the country, to make a life on some sparsely-populated speck in the ocean on the other side of the world--one with lots of sun, surf, and bugs. It was a vision worth savoring: herself with tanned skin and hair down to her ass--Grissom loved her hair--and Gil in Hawaiian shirt and holey shorts, his beard gone scruffy, both of them relaxing in the shade of some palm fronds while he extolled the virtues of his latest six-legged discovery. _I know he's innocent, he knows he's innocent, what's the problem? _

But Grissom would never agree to it, she knew that. His faith in the system was not absolute, but he would not betray a career's worth of justice by running away from it, however misguided. The man would rather sacrifice his life's work--even his freedom--to demonstrate his belief.

Sara sighed, and shifted a little on the hard bench. _If they convict him...I don't know what I'll do. _

It was a rather startling thought. Sara had often contemplated life without Grissom before they had become lovers, but none of those bleak imaginings had included a relationship begun, let alone cut off in such a fashion. Even when she had been on sabbatical in San Francisco, running her demons to ground, Sara had known she would go back to Grissom eventually. The only thing separating them had been physical distance.

_One thing's for sure, I wouldn't be working for the lab any more._ For her, continuing to work for the system that had failed Grissom would be intolerable.

There was no question of abandoning him, though. If Grissom were convicted, Sara knew she would be visiting him as often as possible, helping him work towards an appeal, doing whatever she could even if she only saw him through a pane of bulletproof glass.

A familiar voice made her look up, and then stare in surprise. Hannah West, dressed in a neatly tailored suit and carrying a large shoulder bag, was walking down the hallway. _I don't believe it. She came in on her own?_

Sara considered the matter, and remained in her seat, observing as the girl came closer.

Hannah had grown in the months since Sara had seen her last; she was at least two inches taller, and her face was beginning to alter towards maturity. The smug expression on it, however, held more of the malicious child. Her bright gaze lit on Sara, and Hannah's eyes narrowed; then her smile widened.

It was weird how much power the thought of the teen had on her, Sara mused as she watched the girl approach. Hannah had always struck her as a bit off, and Sara supposed that was one of the reasons that she had been so convinced that Hannah had killed Stacy Vollmer.

"Sara! I must admit, I wasn't expecting to see you again. I thought I was done with the police after my lawsuit was settled. That was part of the agreement, you know, that I drop all charges."

Sara regarded her. Hannah had grown enough that her head was slightly above Sara now, but Sara kept her posture relaxed. "You're here about the child murders, I take it."

Hannah blinked innocently. "Yes, I saw that on the news. Dr. Grissom really went over the edge, poor crazy man." Hannah's expression did not change, but it felt to Sara as though the temperature in the hallway had dropped several degrees, and conviction gripped her. _I'm __**right**__. This is why she did it._

And inspiration sparked. _If I can get her to admit it, publically..._

"I'm so sorry for you, Sara, finding out that your fiancé smothers children," Hannah added. "Do you think it was random, or do you just have a knack for attracting crazy people?"

_Here we go._ Sara gazed at her and didn't let her own expression change. "I don't know. Are you crazy?"

Hannah's eyes flickered, but she scarcely paused. "Maybe you actually _make_ them crazy, did you ever think of that? Maybe it's your aura or something. Spend too much time around Sara Sidle, and you go slowly nuts."

As always, the girl's barbs were diabolically clever. Sara knew quite well that her parents' problems had been in place long before her birth, but to the self-doubt that still plagued her it was almost a plausible theory.

_She's half my size and half my age. I survived growing up, I survived a rapist who wanted to cut my throat, I survived Natalie and the rain and the desert. _

Sara made herself not react, hanging onto her self-control with iron strength. _She won't get me this time._

Hannah bubbled gaily on, her sympathy grating. "That must have some interesting ethical implications. I mean, to be honest, the best thing you could do for anyone you cared about would be leaving them strictly alone--"

"Hannah," Sara broke in firmly. "Grissom's not crazy. And he's not a murderer. He's innocent."

The look Hannah gave her was dripping with pity. "I suppose you'd almost have to believe that, wouldn't you? Even though you processed all the evidence yourself. It's so pathetic when love makes a smart woman dumb, you know."

Sara smiled at her. "What makes you think I processed all the evidence?"

Hannah went still for an instant, then tossed her head. "It was all over the news. You were the lead CSI on the cases."

The statement was plausible, and Sara swore internally. _No good. Try again._ "True enough," she said pleasantly, her mind running at top speed as she tried to think of a way into Hannah's mind.

_Focus. What does she want? _"It's not easy, seeing all those children murdered."

"So sad," Hannah agreed. "They never really got a chance to start their lives."

Her very eagerness was repellant. Sara wanted to be out of the PD and far away from this frightening child, whose eyes shone with pleasure as she bantered.

_She's enjoying this._

It made Sara feel sick to her stomach. Was this Hannah's version of toying with her victim? _Crazy people do make me feel crazy. _

But she kept her attention on her tormenter. _Keep talking, Hannah._

The girl leaned forward. "Are you going to go back to work at the lab once he's convicted? I mean, all the memories, and will anyone ever trust you again?"

_She wants my destruction. What if she thinks she isn't getting it? _

"I'm not sure I'd have any reason to stay in Vegas if Grissom isn't here," Sara allowed.

"You mean you wouldn't visit him? You'd leave him to just rot in jail alone?" Hannah sounded positively cheerful over the prospect.

Sara tried to remember fourteen, but she'd struggled so hard to _forget..._ _Think! Teenage girls...hormones..._

"I might as well," Sara said, pretending carelessness and surreptitiously sliding her left hand under her purse. "We're not engaged any more."

Hannah's face froze. "You broke up with him?"

_...Romance. Even the cynics are romantics underneath. _

Sara shrugged, carefully casual, and lied some more, her fingers working under the purse to slide her engagement ring free. "Well, I wasn't about to marry someone who's most likely going to prison for the rest of his life." She gave Hannah a gently superior smile. "You'll find out when you grow up that love doesn't always make it worthwhile."

"But--you--" Hannah sputtered, her hands fisting.

_Gotcha._ "I'd like to prove him innocent, but if I can't, well...I have my own life to live, you know?" The lies were easy, and Sara felt a small pang of anguish. She hid it, and slowly rose to her feet, towering over her opponent.

"No," Hannah said lowly. "No, I don't believe it. You _love _him. You're _lying."_

Sara caught her angry gaze. "Hannah, have I ever lied to you?"

In the girl's eyes Sara saw a flare of pain and grief, and knew she was remembering the last time they'd spoken, when Sara had told Hannah that her brother was dead. Hannah had accused her of lying then, but every word had been the truth.

"No. _No!"_ Hannah was vibrating with fury and anguish. "I did it right. It was _perfect!"_ she raged. "I found the children, and I made the chaplets, and when nothing happened I put in the evidence to make sure. It was supposed to _destroy _you! You _love_ him, Sara, why are you _still okay?"_

This last was almost a scream, and Sara felt a surge of triumph. But Hannah reached into her shoulder bag, and her hand came out with a small revolver. Her aim on Sara's midsection was frighteningly unwavering.

"_Gun!" _someone bellowed, starting off a flurry of activity around them. But everyone else was yards away, and there was less than two feet between Sara and Hannah.

Sara held her hands out at her sides, fingers spread wide. _She pulled a weapon in the __**police station**__--this is __**not**__ good-- _"Hannah, please put down the gun."

Hannah ignored the request. "You killed Marlon," she said, her voice dropping to a lower volume, which alarmed Sara more than her screaming. "You have to suffer for that."

"You want me to be alone, is that it?" Sara hazarded, stalling for time and wondering how long the officers gathering in the corridor would hold off.

"I want you to lose _everything,"_ Hannah said viciously. "You don't have any family left, so I had to take _him_ away instead. They were supposed to fire you!"

Hannah had, Sara decided, a somewhat vague grasp of how the Vegas lab handled personnel. Though she had to admit that she still might lose her job over this.

"You need to put the gun down, Hannah," Sara repeated, trying to sound soothing and wondering whether the girl had ever even fired the weapon. _The trouble is, at this range, the odds aren't exactly in my favor._

"Shut up!" Hannah yelled. She was crying now, tears running down her face but her aim still true. "Shut up!"

Sara looked down at the rigid little figure, wondering how on earth Hannah had gone from a canny, amoral plotter to this desperate insanity. It seemed almost absurd.

The last time someone had pulled a gun on Sara, she had been terrified. Now, however, she felt a strange calm, though her heartbeat was pounding in her ears. _I've won,_ she realized. _No matter what she does now, she's confessed. Grissom's innocent and all the charges will be dropped. _

Hannah's sobs and the tense rattle of orders further down the corridor didn't fade, exactly, but they became inessential. Sara met the teary eyes, and knew with a calm certainty that Hannah was going to shoot. The girl had killed before in cold blood, had pressed a pillow down on eight small faces until the life had ebbed out of the young bodies.

Pulling that trigger would be such a small thing.

But before she had even considered forensics as a career, Sara had been a physicist. She widened her own eyes, checking her peripheral vision for targets, but the corridor had been cleared; there were officers at either end with their guns drawn on Hannah, but all were at least fifteen yards away.

_Good._

Weaponless self-defense was good for many things, as was a certain ability to take risks. Without breaking Hannah's gaze, Sara reached out with one arm and swept Hannah's hands upward, hard. There was a blast of light and sound, and something exploded behind Sara's left shoulder, but the gun went spinning away, clattering to the floor. Sara grabbed Hannah's wrists, wrapping her own long fingers around them. _"Clear!"_

Hannah shrieked and twisted, but Sara's grip was firm, and she withstood several sharp kicks before Det. Vartann reached them, two more officers right behind him. Hannah was pulled from Sara's hands and roughly forced to the floor; Sara winced slightly, but her sympathy was scant. Anyone who pulled a gun on a law enforcement official was not going to be treated kindly, fourteen years old or not.

Her left ear was ringing painfully, and Vartann had to touch her arm to get her attention. She blinked and switched her gaze to him. "What?"

"I said, are you okay, Sidle?" His squint was worried, and he took her shoulders and turned her to face him, oblivious of the screeched epithets going on behind his ankles. One officer was reading Hannah her rights, which she was ignoring in favor of hysterics.

Vartann put his fingers to Sara's jaw to turn her head, then let out his breath in a quick sigh. "Missed. That was a hell of a chance, Sara."

She shrugged, her eyes going back to the struggling figure now being hauled upright. Hannah's face was crimson, her eyes still leaking tears, but all her power was gone. She was...pathetic, Sara realized.

Arms went around her in a hard clutch, and Sara turned herself into Grissom's embrace. "Sara, what..." His voice choked off, and his hug tightened. "Are you all right?"

Sara nodded, feeling the adrenaline drain away into a sort of sick relief. Shudders ran through her, and only his hand on the back of her head, pressing it close to his, kept her from embarrassing herself with tears.

After a few long breaths, she managed to gather control and lift her head, though Grissom didn't let her go just yet. Vartann was still waiting with polite patience; beyond him, the two officers holding Hannah began to escort her towards Booking. The girl twisted her neck to watch Sara as she was forced along. "I'm not done," she spat. "I'm smarter than you, you'll see!"

Sara merely watched over Grissom's shoulder as Hannah was taken out of sight. The threat didn't deserve an answer.

_It's over, Hannah. You're __**done.**_

* * *

The aftermath was tedious, as might be expected; there were statements to give and assault charges to press. Since Sara was on leave, she didn't have to file an actual report, but as she grumbled to Grissom in a private moment, writing one out might have been faster. He just snorted and held her hand tighter.

She might almost have taken him for calm, but for the wrist pulse running high against her thumb.

When they were finally released, it was late afternoon. Grissom took charge and the keys and drove them home, and Sara didn't argue; her head ached and rang with the aftermath of Hannah's wild shot, and she felt weak with relief and adrenaline aftermath. She kept her eyes closed until they pulled into the garage, shutting out the hard desert light and the bustle of the streets.

The house was cool and welcoming, and without asking Grissom went around pulling the shades to dim the sunshine. Sara sat down on the couch and kicked off her shoes, a reversal of her usual order, and tried to absorb the past couple of hours without much effect. It was hard to believe that everything had ended so abruptly, that the threat against Grissom was gone.

His weight settled onto the cushion beside her, and his knuckles brushed feather-light against her left cheek. "You've got a bit of a powder burn," he said quietly.

Even under so gentle a touch, the skin burned slightly. Sara merely sighed, and leaned into him, feeling his arms go around her and snug her in close in his familiar, indescribably comforting habit. Her own hands snuck around his chest; it made such a nice pillow.

They sat, breathing together, being together.

They needed nothing more.


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. All others belong to me, and if you want to borrow them, you have to ask me first. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**Spoilers: through "Bull" **

**Note: this story includes the non-graphic deaths of children.**

**My deep apologies for the delay in posting this chapter. It's been a long time since a story has kicked my tail this hard, and while that's not much of an excuse for missing my posting dates, the muse is just like that sometimes. Argh. Anyway, I am not setting a posting date for the next chapter either, but hopefully it won't be too long. Thanks for your patience and encouragement, and for trusting me. **

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

The Sheriff sighed, displaying apology and brisk control with the ease of a born politician. "Hannah West is under psychiatric observation," he told Sara and Grissom, laying his hands flat on his desk. He was trying to look both authoritative and genial, Sara thought, and wasn't quite succeeding at either.

Burdick's secretary had called the evening before, when they were still sitting on the couch, to request an interview the next morning. Sara had agreed more readily than she otherwise might; she wanted answers.

Chief among them--but Grissom asked it first. "Ben, just how on earth did she get a gun into the station?"

His tone was polite, but Burdick all but flinched, and Sara didn't blame him. She could hear the fury behind Grissom's words and she knew the Sheriff could too.

Burdick grimaced. "She went down through the employee garage and told the guard that she was meeting her mother inside. She had a fake visitor's badge she'd picked up somewhere and he never even bothered to search her bag."

Sara could just picture it--wide-eyed Hannah projecting innocence, pretending to be younger than she actually was. It wouldn't have been difficult; Hannah might have grown but her body hadn't done much developing yet.

Grissom inhaled, but the Sheriff held up one hand. "He's been busted back to Traffic, and it's going on his permanent file."

Sara snorted to herself. _I can't blame him for getting fooled. She did it to me twice._

_...Three times. _

Burdick shook his head. "I can't figure out why she brought it with her, though. There's no way she could know you were here, Ms. Sidle."

_I wouldn't be too sure about that._ But Sara was inclined to think that Hannah _hadn't_ known. "I think she was probably already going over the edge. Coming in here voluntarily--"

"It makes a certain twisted sense," Grissom interjected thoughtfully. "So far she'd managed to successfully bluff her way out of two separate murder investigations. Into and out of, when it comes to the first one. She probably figured she could bluff her way through a third."

Burdick's nod was rueful. "She might have succeeded, if we hadn't turned up her crucifixes."

Sara sat up. "You found her workshop?"

"Yeah." The Sheriff grinned a little. "Seems that she'd been using her parents' storage unit as a place to put them together--the rent was paid automatically and she just let it keep going after they died. Ecklie's team almost missed it, but CSI Lake finally turned up the supplies in an old tackle box. Chains, beads, crosses...tools and some liquid diphenhydramine."

Sara shuddered. "No pillow?"

"Not that they could find. She may have gotten rid of it."

"With me under arrest, Hannah would have had no further need for it," Grissom noted dryly, and Sara shuddered again, reaching out to take his hand. His fingers closed warmly on hers, always reassuring.

Burdick shrugged. "Well, she hasn't been interrogated yet, but even if she doesn't cooperate there's enough evidence for a very strong case against her." He folded his hands together, pursing his lips judicially. "Dr. Grissom, you can consider yourself on administrative leave--paid, that goes without saying--for the moment, until we get the charges straightened out. I'm really not sure how this is going to play out, but I'm reasonably certain we can reinstate you quietly."

His oily smoothness turned Sara's stomach. _He was ready to just let Gil hang, and now he's acting like it's a favor to take him back. _

Grissom's face did not show his feelings, but she felt his pulse speed up slightly. _He's pissed. _A touch of dark humor narrowed her eyes. _So'm I._

The Sheriff turned to her. "Ms. Sidle, as for--"

She held up one hand. "I'd like to continue my leave for a day or so."

Burdick inhaled, startled, but immediately turned it into a smile. "Of course. I'm sure the two of you need a little time."

* * *

"I almost reached over and smacked the smarm off his face," Sara muttered as they left the police station. Next to her, Grissom laughed, a sour note.

"I think it's a little more than skin deep. Let's go home."

Grissom had parked out front, and they both squinted as they emerged from the station, fumbling for their sunglasses. Sara, preoccupied with her irritation, missed what Grissom saw until his steps slowed and made her look up.

Catherine was leaning against his Mercedes, her eyes shielded by her own glasses and her face impassive. Her arms were crossed and her posture tight, and Sara knew she was still angry.

But as they neared, Catherine pushed away from the car and stepped forward to wrap Grissom in a fierce hug. After a second's hesitation, Grissom returned the hug, and Sara edged away to give them space.

_Cath may be a pain in the ass, but she does care about Gil. _She waited patiently, knowing that the two of them had a history that went back further than her own with Grissom, and that it mattered to him though he rarely even mentioned it.

Finally Catherine let Grissom go, asking him something in a voice so low that Sara couldn't make out her words. Grissom nodded; Catherine said something else, and he patted her arm awkwardly. "It's okay."

Catherine glared up at him, then grimaced, conceding, and visibly drew herself up before turning to Sara. "I understand why you did it, but I'm still pissed at you," she said flatly.

Sara regarded her, and nodded. "I would be too, under the circumstances."

It was true; Catherine's loyalty went beyond rationality, and Sara appreciated it for Grissom's sake. It didn't make dealing with Catherine any easier, but it was good to know that Grissom still had the older woman's friendship.

Catherine's brows went up, and then she nodded back. "Okay then," she said, and turned back to Grissom. "I'll call you," she said, in a tone that was almost threatening, then stalked away.

Grissom watched her climb into her car, and let out a sound that was half a quiet laugh. "She never ceases to amaze me," he said fondly.

Sara felt a grin stretching her face for what seemed like the first time in far too long. "Me either," she said dryly, smirking at his mock-admonishing look. "Come on, let's go home."

Grissom spent the afternoon fielding phone calls from friends relieved to hear that he'd been released, and with the exquisite understanding he could display on occasion, he also handled the ones from friends calling to check up on Sara. Hannah's meltdown had made the news online if not yet on TV, and both facts and rumor were flying among the law enforcement community. Sara knew the calls were something of a burden to him, but she took the coward's way out and let him do it; she just couldn't face dealing with even the honest concern of Nick, for instance, or Greg's horrified questions.

Instead, she did little chores around the house, never going out of the range of Grissom's patient replies to whoever was on the other end of the line. Her heart, starved for his presence, kept her close by, and every so often he would look up from his conversations or the newspaper he was reading between calls, and smile at her. Occasionally he would hold out a hand, and Sara would come over to take it for a moment, long enough to reassure them both.

_This is going to be a long time healing._

"What was it like?" she asked him later, again in the dark as they lay close together in bed. It seemed the thing to do, somehow, as though what had happened was too awful for daylight.

She felt Grissom shrug. "Pretty boring, actually," he said easily. "They let me have a newspaper but no pen, so I couldn't do the crossword." His lips ghosted across her hair for a moment. "Your visits were the highlight of my day."

Sara traced the line of his breastbone with one finger, a path she knew by heart. "Who hurt you, Gil?"

He sighed. "A guard." Her mind immediately began running over the faces of those she knew worked in the jail, and Grissom gave her a gentle shake. "I'm not going to tell you who, Sara. I'll tell Jim when I see him next, but he's the only one who needs to know."

Sara thought about arguing--her rage at the unknown tormentor still burned hot--but she knew that firm tone, and she could see his unspoken point. _We both have to work with the police. Bringing an accusation like that out in the open--_ It would destroy a great deal of the trust that the law enforcement community depended upon. Some would not believe Grissom, while others would be outraged at everyone even remotely involved.

"As long as he does something about it," she said at last. "Make him promise, Gil."

He chuckled softly. "I don't think that'll be a problem, sweetheart."

They were silent for a while, but Sara finally nerved herself up to ask the question whose answer she most feared. "Gil..."

He hummed inquiringly, and Sara swallowed. "Were you mad at me?"

Grissom moved slightly, and Sara pictured him looking down at her head where it lay on his shoulder. "Sara..."

She laid her palm flat on his chest. "I need to know."

There was a rustle as he laid his head back down on the pillow, and his thumb stroked down her arm. "Yeah, I was," he said finally. "For about thirty seconds. And...hurt."

Sara winced, regret a sick roil in her gut. _I couldn't have done anything else, but--_

Grissom's arm tightened again. "And then I realized how much it was killing you to go forward with the evidence, and all I wanted to do was comfort you." He let out a long breath. "You did the right thing, Sara, you followed the evidence. Being hurt--that was natural, but it didn't last."

Her throat ached. Sara squeezed her eyes shut tightly. "I wish I hadn't hurt you at all."

He hugged her tightly. "I know."

* * *

The e-mail from Greg contained only a URL link and the statement _I thought you should hear this._ Sara stared at the one line, which seemed weighted with an ominous meaning.

_It's too early to deal with this._

But putting it off seemed cowardly, and she'd been cowardly enough the day before. She sighed, and the sound apparently attracted Grissom's attention, because he wandered over to the low table and set a cup of coffee down next to her laptop. "What is it?"

Sara looked up at him affectionately, drinking in the sight of freshly-woken Grissom--hair rumpled, shirt unbuttoned, feet encased in thoroughly disreputable slippers. It was so blessedly _normal_ that Sara wanted to pull the entire moment into her arms and hold it forever, wrapped around them both. "E-mail from Greg. I think it's probably not good news."

Grissom peered down at the screen over his glasses, then shrugged. "How about breakfast first?"

It felt like a weekend to be making the meal together, companionably bumping hips in the kitchen as Grissom dipped French toast and Sara cut up fruit. There was nowhere to rush off to, no schedule to meet; they were free to spend the entire day together if they so desired. _And I do._ Such small slices of peace were rare enough, and she had learned new appreciation for them lately.

When breakfast was reduced to smears of syrup on plates in the dishwasher, Sara returned to her waiting laptop and clicked on the link. Grissom sat down next to her on the couch, sliding his hand along her leg in casual habit as Sara downloaded the audio file to which the link pointed, and opened it.

A couple of clicks and crackles were followed by Vartann's crisp voice reciting the date. _"This is an interview with Hannah West concerning the charges brought against her by the State of Las Vegas. These include eight counts of murder and one count of assault with a deadly weapon. Ms. Watson from Child Protective Services is present on behalf of Miss West." _A sharper click, as of a recorder being set down. _"All right, Hannah, you have something to say?"_

Sara spared a brief distracted thought to wonder how Greg had laid hands on the audio file, given that he wasn't even involved in the case. Next to her, Grissom shifted. "We shouldn't be listening to this," he said softly.

Sara hit the pause button and looked over at him. "Probably not. But you know Greg. He has to have sent this for a reason."

Grissom's mouth quirked. "And at some risk," he admitted. "All right."

She restarted the file. The hiss of dead air was all they heard for a few seconds, and then Hannah laughed lightly, a sound that made Sara's muscles tighten.

"_I thought you already caught the murderer," _she said, as casual as if she were discussing the latest physics theory. _"One of your crime scene investigators snapped. That's what the news said, anyway."_

Her tone was assured, a confidence that Sara had heard before when she'd faced Hannah across an interrogation room table. Sara hoped that Vartann would be able to keep control of the interview; the girl had an uncanny knack of twisting the thread of a conversation the way she wanted it to go.

"_No, we kind of like you for these killings,"_ Vartann said shortly. _"The evidence is saying you murdered those kids."_

Hannah laughed again. _"Does it, Detective Vartann? Are you sure?" _In her mind's eye, Sara could picture Hannah mimicking whatever posture Vartann had assumed--probably leaning an elbow on the table. The girl's slightly protuberant eyes would be wide with amused interest, fixed on his face to watch for the slightest change in expression. _"What proof do you really have?"_

"_Enough,"_ Vartann replied without humor. _"There's also the matter of your confession yesterday. Lots of witnesses to that." _

In Sara's imagination, Hannah shrugged delicately. _"Eyewitnesses are the least reliable, they say. Who knows what I said under pressure? I'm not sure I remember myself."_

Grissom snorted, an irritated sound. Sara slid her hand over his where it lay against her leg, and laced her fingers with his.

"_At least five people heard you state that you killed the children to get back at CSI Sidle,"_ Vartann said. _"That's a lot of reliable testimony."_

"_Law enforcement testimony,"_ Hannah shot back. _"Sara is a criminalist, one of you. Can you honestly believe any of you would be impartial?"_

The question was, unfortunately, somewhat valid. "She should have gone into law instead of chemistry," Sara murmured. She didn't like Hannah's use of her first name, but there was nothing she could do about that.

"_You want to bet your freedom on that?" _Vartann was saying. _"We have you on video pulling a gun on CSI Sidle."_

"_I was in fear for my life,"_ Hannah said coldly. _"She was threatening me."_

"What?" Sara sat up straight. Grissom frowned.

"_Really."_ Vartann's tone was the epitome of bored disbelief.

"_Yes. I only got the gun because I wanted to protect myself,"_ Hannah said virtuously. _"Sara's been stalking me for weeks now."_

Sara thumped her finger down on the mousepad to pause the recording. "Bull_shit!"_

"Clever," Grissom observed, his eyes gone cold as he stared at the laptop. "As an accusation it's unprovable, but it does lay groundwork for an insanity plea." His fingers were squeezing hers harder.

Sara snarled. "She's trying to turn this on _me?"_

Grissom hissed out a breath. "It's always been about you, Sara. Is there any way she could guess that you were investigating her ahead of the official team?"

Fuming, Sara thought for a moment. "I don't see how," she replied. "I did go to the university library, but unless she happened to see me there...and she's not even taking classes this semester."

"Then she has no basis for her accusation." Grissom's eyes were angry, but his criminalist's professional calm was returning. "Vartann won't accept that at face value."

"He'd better not," Sara muttered, and tapped the mousepad again.

Vartann's voice was still dry as dust. _"You don't say." _

"_I do." _In contrast, Hannah's was back to honey-sweetness. _"Honestly, Detective, CSIs aren't perfect. She still thinks I'm responsible for Kira Dellinger's suicide somehow, and she thinks that if she follows me around long enough she'll be able to prove it."_

Either Hannah had come up with her story ahead of time, or she was really good at spinning a tale on the fly, Sara thought, her outrage deepening. It almost sounded plausible even to her ears.

"_Got any proof?"_ Vartann asked.

Another little laugh. _"Not __**on**__ me, obviously. And before you ask why I didn't inform the police, well, that should be obvious too, shouldn't it?"_

"_So why didn't you leave?" _Vartann asked, his voice growing sharper. _ "Your family's gone, there's nothing to keep you in Vegas." _

"_Don't talk about my family," _Hannah snapped back. _"That Sidle bitch is the reason Marlon's dead!" _There was a scraping thump, as though she had flung herself back down into her chair. _"I want my lawyer."_

"_All right,"_ Vartann said, and the sound cut off with a rattling click. The sound file was finished.

Sara met Grissom's gaze. "Why the hell couldn't she just have sued me?" she asked, surprising Grissom into a snort of laughter.

"Not clever enough," he opined. "She doesn't just want revenge on you, she wants to feel superior."

Sara winced. "Like screwing with me on the first case wasn't enough?"

Grissom let her hand go so he could put her laptop on the coffee table and pull her into his arms. "That was incidental. You weren't even the primary on that case, you were just the one person who realized her potential."

"I guess," Sara muttered, not entirely convinced, and let herself relax against him. "Do you think this is going to be a problem?"

"I don't see how." Grissom paused for a moment, thinking. "If it is, Sara, we'll manage."

She sighed. "I hope so."

Grissom's embrace was comforting, but Sara had the uneasy feeling that he wasn't certain either.


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. All others belong to me, and if you want to borrow them, you have to ask me first. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**Spoilers: through "Bull" **

**Note: this story includes the non-graphic deaths of children.**

**Finally! A short chapter, but if it's any consolation the next one will most likely be fatter--and is already partly written. As always, huge thanks to ****Cincoflex**** and ****Laura27md**** for their help and encouragement! **

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

The coffee shop was full of morning customers, but Sara considered that an advantage; it was harder to overhear a conversation in the buzz of many voices than in a quieter room. She sipped her latte and waited, watching the tidily capped paper cup on the other side of the table vent a curl of steam. Working with Ronnie had let her memorize the young woman's choice in coffee.

The CSI slid into the seat opposite before the steam ceased, and Sara smiled at her and shoved over the little bag holding a muffin. "Morning."

Ronnie looked dismayed. "You didn't have to buy me breakfast..."

Sara gave her half a glare, and Ronnie subsided, picking up her cup

or a careful sip. "Umm. Thanks for meeting me."

"What's up?" Sara asked, curious as to the purpose behind Ronnie's summoning phone call. "Has something new happened with the case?"

"Not with the case exactly." Ronnie took out the muffin and stripped off the paper with quick fingers. "I guess they haven't figured out that I was keeping you up to date, huh?"

Sara smiled, turning her cup idly round and round on the table. "It didn't come up, somehow."

Ronnie grinned back, all but sparkling. "Well, thanks--anyway--Detective Vartann had me sit in on his follow-up interrogation of Hannah West." She sobered. "That girl is _creepy."_

"Tell me about it," Sara murmured, remembering mad, furious eyes.

Ronnie's nose wrinkled. "She's got a big-name lawyer, and she's already planning on pleading not guilty by reason of mental disease, but you probably guessed that."

"Yeah." The news surprised Sara not at all. She knew Hannah; the defense was the only logical one, and might even be true.

_Still, with eight dead children, she's not going to get off lightly. For one thing, they'll probably try her as an adult._

"The thing is..." Ronnie hesitated, looking distressed. "She claims you're the reason she turned into a serial killer."

Sara blinked. "In a twisted way, I kind of am...but I have a feeling that that's not quite what you mean."

Ronnie shifted uncomfortably. "She says that you've been spying on her and that's why she went crazy and started killing those kids. I know it's not _true,_" she added hastily. "We all know _that._ But it's like...she's really, um, persuasive. Detective Vartann was saying that people might, well, believe her. A little."

Sara sat straight, cold anger mixing with equally cold reason. _I know just which people, too. _The press, for starters, would run with the idea if they got hold of it, whether it was true or not. _And defense attorneys--every time I take the stand someone's going to bring it up-- _

The entire idea left a very sour taste in her mouth, one that a gulp of coffee did not rinse away. _Gil would have some pithy quote about appearances. But it's his ass on the line, too._

"Probably," she said finally, and Ronnie stared unhappily down at her muffin wrapper.

"Sara, I don't know what I can do about this. There's even a couple of people on Dayshift saying that they wouldn't be surprised if you _did_ stalk her."

Sara snorted. "That's Dayshift. Ronnie, I appreciate you letting me know, but this isn't your problem." She shrugged. "People can say what they want. I didn't stalk her, and they can't prove that I did."

Ronnie took a deep breath, and managed a smile. "Yeah, okay." She dabbed at a crumb with her napkin. "It just pisses me off, you know?"

Sara sat back, a small dry amusement making her lips curve. "Believe me, it pisses me off too. But arguing won't help. Just let it go, and eventually it'll blow over."

Ronnie nodded, and took another bite of muffin. Sara drank more coffee, glad that Ronnie couldn't read her well enough to know that she was nowhere near as confident as she sounded.

_Be honest. You don't exactly have the best track record when it comes to behavior at the lab,_ she thought. _An unofficial DUI, a traumatic injury, a rule-breaking relationship and a six-month leave of absence don't quite add up to "stable" in the eyes of management. _

The trouble was, so much of law enforcement work depended on _appearances._ No one was perfect, but CSIs and police tended to be held to impossible standards. And while they'd all fallen short from time to time, the night shift crew had escaped serious consequences for the most part.

_I don't know if I'll be that lucky this time._

Sara took her time on the drive home, thinking hard about their situation. What she did, or didn't do, would affect Grissom, as inextricably linked as they were. That was almost the most infuriating aspect--she could take whatever was dished out, Sara thought, but to have it spill over onto Gil was just about unbearable. _This could destroy his career. I never wanted that to happen--_

She would sacrifice her own, Sara realized, if it would save his. _I've never been as invested in as Gil, anyway. Forensics may be my passion, but it's his calling--the shape of his life. And lately... _She thought back over her leave of absence, the feelings that had prompted it, the conclusions she'd drawn. Her career had been fulfilling for a long time, but people did change, and she'd been considering change before she'd even left Las Vegas so abruptly.

_Maybe it's time to think about it again. _

Sara paused at a light and signaled for a turn, frowning at the stoplight. _The only way to keep him completely out of this is to leave him. And that's just not an option. _Never mind that it was the last thing she wanted to do; Grissom had suffered enough when she'd taken her leave of absence._ It would break both of us._

Resigning seemed to be the best option, though she hated to do it; it felt like giving in to the pressure._ But it'll be a dirty fight no matter what I do,_ she thought as she drove into their garage._ Maybe...maybe I should just not play their game._

It was all moot until she talked to Grissom anyway. Sara shut off the engine and climbed out of her car, not eager to deliver her news to her lover, to see the worry crease his brows and weigh him down._ Dammit, why couldn't Hannah have just been a nice normal little genius with a nice normal family? Why did she have to get obsessed over __**me?**_

Steeling herself to tell Grissom, Sara walked into the house, but he didn't answer her call. A note waited for her on the breakfast bar, a quick few words. _I need to think, so I went for a walk. Should be home soon. Love you._

Feeling slightly let down, Sara nevertheless smiled at the casual, precious last line, kicked off her shoes, and went to find her seed catalog.

She'd worked her way through vegetables and into flowering shrubs, and the catalog was bristling with sticky notes on the margins, when the front door opened to admit Grissom. He was wearing shorts, which Sara found just adorable whenever he did it, and he looked flushed and slightly sweaty.

In other words, delicious.

Sara grinned at him from her spot on the couch and considered just dropping what she held and pouncing him, but his return smile, though genuine, was small and distracted. She set the catalog aside all the same, rising to go give him a kiss that spoke more of love than lust and to surreptitiously inhale the enticing warm scent of him, pheromones all stirred up by his walk in the sun. "What's up, Doc?"

Grissom gave her a look of mock betrayal, and kept her within the circle of his arms when she would have stepped away. Sara let her hands rest on his shoulders and waited.

One of the many things he'd taught her had been patience, after all.

"I don't want to go back," he said abruptly, rushing the words slightly, then blinked at her as if surprised that he'd vocalized his thoughts.

Shock made Sara blink back at him, but she didn't move. "The lab, you mean?" she asked, even though she was pretty sure that she understood him correctly.

He sighed, letting out sorrow rather than relief. "Yeah."

His eyes were slightly wary--not because he feared her anger, Sara realized, but because he feared her disappointment. She cocked her head a little, genuinely curious, and aware of a small welling of, oddly enough, hope. "Why?"

Grissom screwed up his mouth, obviously searching for words, then gave her a gentle nudge towards the couch. "I'm not quite sure I can explain."

They sat down, and Sara took his hands in hers, cradling the strong fingers. "I'm listening."

He sighed again. "It--the lab--well, they did everything right. They followed procedure, the same way you did." Grissom frowned down at their hands. "But...this isn't something that will die down. Someone will always remember that I was arrested for murder, and that will affect how they interact with me and with the lab."

A surge of guilt under Sara's breastbone was forestalled by his squeeze of her hands and stern look. "Stop it," he said fondly, which made her snicker despite herself. _He knows me too well._

"Go on," she told him, settling deeper into the couch.

Grissom said nothing for a moment, and she guessed he was organizing his thoughts. "We were going to give it a year, remember?" He pursed his lips. "I don't think I need that much time. Sometimes it's wise to stop before there's nothing left."

Sara opened her mouth to disagree, then closed it again. Between his leave of absence, Natalie Davis, _her _leave of absence, and Hannah's shenanigans, his weariness made a lot of sense.

"What would you do?" she asked at last, in part to give herself a little time to think.

Grissom chuckled. "What _wouldn't _I do, sweetheart? Read. Write. Get back into roach racing. Make you dinner every evening..."

She couldn't help smiling. "Charming as that vision is, you'd get bored pretty fast," Sara countered.

He cocked his head. "I'm not sure I would. And even if I did, there are plenty of options open to me."

Grissom was right, she knew. His expertise and knowledge would open many doors if he bothered to knock on them.

_Wait a minute. Why am I thinking up objections?_

"That's true," she acknowledged. "Gil...I'm thinking of quitting too."

It was his turn to look astonished. "Are they forcing you out?" he asked, brows drawing down.

Sara shook her head quickly. "No--at least, not yet. But with Hannah blaming me for what she did, my rep's not in the best shape right now, and--well--" Realization firmed her tone. "--I'm fed up. The Sheriff should have welcomed you back with open arms, and you know as well as I do that this whole...thing is going to come up every time either one of us takes the stand."

Grissom gave her the slow, sideways nod he used when he didn't like the answer he was agreeing with. "All too true." He looked thoughtful. "You could find a job at another lab."

It was the most logical step, but it actually didn't appeal. Sara turned the idea over in her mind. _Maybe I'm tired too._

"I've been thinking about going back for my PhD," she said slowly. Grissom's sudden brilliant smile almost startled her.

"They're always looking for good minds at Brookhaven," he replied, and in any other man it would have been a tease, but Sara knew he meant it. _Me, at one of the world's premier nuclear physics labs... _She shook her head, smiling.

"You really want to move to New York?" she asked wryly.

Grissom shrugged. "Home is where you are," he answered, freeing one hand to stroke her cheek. "But...Sara, are you sure? I'm coming up on retirement age anyway, but you--"

She shook her head firmly, feeling more certain with every passing minute. "Gil, I love the puzzles, and I love helping people, but forensics was never the center of my life. It made a decent substitute for a while, but...now I have something better."

The tips of Grissom's ears turned pink, and Sara grinned at him. She knew her decision was impulsive, but impulse had worked for her before. _For instance, moving to Las Vegas--_ "You said, give it a year, and if we're not happy we should quit. Well, neither of us is happy with the way things are right now, and that's not going to change any time soon. Why wait that long?"

"All right." Grissom nodded slowly. "Let's sleep on it, both of us, and tomorrow we can...take the next step. Whatever it is."

"Good." Sara leaned forward and kissed him with an enthusiasm he didn't hesitate to return, but he lifted a quizzical eyebrow when she released him.

"Not that I don't appreciate it, but what brought that on?"

Her grin turned wicked. "We have almost twelve hours before it's time to sleep. Got any better ideas to while away the time?"

He cocked his head again, then returned her smirk. "Nope."

* * *

It was easier than Sara anticipated to get their friends together all at the same time. With the closure of the serial killer case, Greg had been returned to the night shift, and they all came crowding in after work--Brass pulling off his tie, Nick and Warrick complaining genially about a new prosecutor, and Greg holding the door for Catherine with a smile and a teasing wink.

Sara handed out coffee while Grissom flipped pancakes, and she got hugs from the boys and exchanged a wary, polite nod with Catherine as the visitors settled around the dining room table. Brass watched the interplay with knowing eyes, and pulled out Sara's chair for her before Grissom could.

The conversation was brisk and cheerful, with many requests to pass bacon or butter or the orange juice carafe, but there was an underlying feeling of waiting. And, typically, it was Catherine who was the first to ask, though she waited until most of the pancakes were gone. "So what's the reason for inviting us to the inner sanctum?"

Grissom gave her an innocent look, but Catherine didn't smile back, and Sara saw him make the decision not to tease his old friend. "Astute as ever, Catherine. Sara and I have an announcement to make."

"A wedding date, finally?" Warrick asked, idly drawing lines in his leftover syrup with the tines of his fork.

"Not exactly," Sara answered, glancing from face to face. Nick's was alight with interest, Warrick's smiling gently, Catherine's still closed and Brass frowning. Only Greg's face held realization, and there was as much sorrow there as pleasure.

Grissom folded his hands and rested them on the table, just shy of his plate. "Sara and I are both resigning from the lab."

Nick sat up straight. "What the hell? You're not gonna fight?"

Warrick frowned deeply, and Catherine huffed. "Gil, don't tell me you're going to let politics drag you down--"

Brass opened his mouth, but before he could say anything Greg spoke up. "Hey. Guys. Let him talk."

His quiet command had an effect, and the others hushed, though not without a glare from Catherine. Grissom nodded in appreciation and continued. "This wasn't an easy decision, but given the situation we decided that it would be the best thing for both of us."

His voice was easy, but Sara could see that his hands were clasped too tightly. There was nothing easy about telling their friends; nothing at all. She slid her hand over his thigh below the table, and saw those clenched thumbs relax a little.

"We're both tired," she added. "The...situation...at work is going to have repercussions for a long time, and they'll be ugly."

Nick shook his head. "Sara, we know you didn't do anything wrong. And we'll all stand behind you, no matter what, you know that." He glanced around, gathering nods from his colleagues, and then looked back hopefully.

Sara swallowed the lump in her throat and smiled back. "Believe me, I appreciate it."

"I thought they'd have to drag you out kicking and screaming," Catherine said abruptly, addressing Grissom. "Are you really willing to give up your career--hell, your _life--_for something that'll die down eventually?"

Her tone was harsh, but Sara could see the pain underneath. Catherine didn't want to lose her oldest friend.

"I have a life, Catherine," Grissom said simply. "It's changing, that's all."

She snorted, and he smiled a little, which made her mouth twitch. Years of tease and argument were embedded in that exchange, Sara knew, distilled down to a silent shorthand.

"I dunno, guys," Warrick said. "I can see where you're coming from, but doesn't this just let the West chick win?"

It was a valid question, and one that Sara and Grissom had discussed the previous afternoon, eating fruit and crackers naked in bed. Grissom spoke now, laying out the same conclusion.

"Her goal was to destroy Sara through me. She didn't succeed, but she did manage to accelerate some of our plans." Grissom shrugged. "Between the damage to our reputations and lab politics..."

Sara took up the thread. "We're not going to play their game," she finished. "Not the politicians', and not Hannah's."

Brass nodded, cradling a coffee cup in both hands. "That's smart," he agreed. "You might not lose, but you can't win in a situation like this."

A little silence fell as his comment was considered; no one wanted to admit that it was true, but they knew it was. Nick and Catherine both looked rebellious, but Sara knew they would need time to get used to the idea. It wasn't going to be easy to leave; _in fact, it's going to hurt like hell. _

_But it's time. _

Greg broke the stillness, pitching his voice drolly. "So what are you going to do with all your free time?"

Grissom glanced over at Sara, a question in his face, and she let the corner of her mouth curl up. "Answer Warrick's question," Grissom replied, equally drolly, and Sara nearly laughed at the puzzlement on everyone's face. "Are you all free next Saturday for a wedding?"


	18. Chapter 18

**  
Disclaimer: Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. All others belong to me, and if you want to borrow them, you have to ask me first. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**Spoilers: through "Bull"**

**Note: this story includes the non-graphic deaths of children.**

**Many thanks for your patience throughout this story. I'm sorry that I wasn't able to stick to a posting schedule. This story would in no way have been possible without the help, support, and gentle correction of ****Cincoflex**** and ****Laura27md****; thanks so much, ladies! **

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

The courtroom was chilly. Sara sat straight on the bench and refused to shiver; there were too many eyes on her, even though she was only an observer. She and Grissom had had to dodge reporters to get inside, and getting out was going to be worse unless they could manage to escape out the back.

But...this was important. Hannah West's arraignment was symbolic of more than just justice done, in Sara's eyes; it was proof that the malevolent girl had been defeated, that the bond between Sara and Gil was too strong.

Her fingers tightened where they were laced with Grissom's, and he squeezed back, his face calm. He was taking the whole situation much more coolly than Sara, but then he had not really been Hannah's focus--just her means to an end.

As they waited for Hannah's name to come up, part of Sara's mind was still going over lists. The normal two weeks of severance had been laid aside, due to the touchy situation and the fact that they were both still on administrative leave, but cases had to be written up and handed over, and a thousand small details had crowded in to be handled. Just packing up and emptying Grissom's office had taken three hours, even with two techs to help. She'd barely had time to think, let alone realize how much she was going to miss certain parts of her job.

Like the people now slipping into the courtroom--Warrick and Nick, Catherine, Jacquie, Greg. Old friends, long-time colleagues--soon to be ex-colleagues. The thought made Sara's throat tighten a little. She was certain that she and Gil were making the right decision, but it was not without pain.

_Suck it up, Sidle, it's not like you'll never see them again. Hell, they'll probably call Grissom in for a consult every chance they get._

It was strange; she'd left San Francisco behind years before, and most of her friendships there had faded fairly quickly. But the ones she'd formed in Vegas were different, deeper somehow. _Maybe it's the people. Maybe it's age. _

_It doesn't matter. _

Action, reaction. In a sense it was all physics. Hannah's actions had pushed Sara and Grissom into a reaction, but it was a right one.

And there she was, being led into the courtroom in a demure dress and handcuffs. The girl's gaze roamed over the room until she saw Sara, and then it burned; but Sara merely gazed back, untouched, and then turned her eyes to the judge. _You're done,_ she repeated silently.

Like Grissom's arraignment, this one was rapid and free of overt drama. Hannah stood docilely and let her attorney reply "not guilty by reason of mental disease" when asked how she pled. There were no surprises. Hannah was remanded to the custody of a state mental hospital for further evaluation, to see if she was capable of standing trial, and it was done.

"That was easy," Sara murmured to Grissom as they stood up to leave. He shot her an amused glance.

"Were you expecting her to have a fit on the spot? She's smarter than that."

"No...I don't know." Sara rubbed the back of her neck restlessly. "I wish I knew what she's planning. If they decide she's insane, she ends up in the hospital for who knows how long; if she stands trial, she has to know she's going to lose. They'll try her as an adult."

Grissom's mouth twisted. "Unfortunately, nothing is guaranteed when it comes to a jury. A competent lawyer could make a good case that her losses caused some kind of psychotic break."

"You're not helping." Sara shot him a half-humorous glare, and Grissom smiled a little.

"We can but hope."

* * *

The wedding turned out to be surprisingly easy to set up, but then Grissom possessed both contacts and money. And will, quiet and polite but strong all the same. Sara, amused and touched, had let him handle the arrangements. She didn't really care how or where they exchanged vows, as long as they did so; but she wanted him to be happy. And if that meant indulging his inner romantic, she would do whatever he liked.

_Well, almost. But luckily he has taste. _

And he had matured in the seventies, as his choice of venues proved. Grissom had actually booked a small executive jet to ferry their friends to the California coast and back, and reserved most of a bed-and-breakfast to house them overnight.

Sara was proud of herself; walking into the place didn't even give her a twinge. Though it helped that it looked nothing like the one she'd grown up in. Instead of a big, weathered Victorian, the Brampton Inn was a cluster of cottages around a low-roofed main building, the grounds exquisitely kept. Sara had to admit that the place was about three levels more elegant than her parents had ever managed.

The cottages overlooked a steep bluff with the sea beyond, a gorgeous venue, and Grissom produced a cousin of some sort who was a minister. The man had a faint family resemblance, Sara thought as they shook hands, but he was at least five inches taller and forty pounds lighter, and had the calm centeredness she had come to associate with some people of faith. Rev. Tatter was the only person to beat them to the Brampton.

Sara looked around their cottage's bedroom as she hung her garment bag in the closet. It was luxurious without being either overdone, cozy and clean, and the woman who had escorted them to the room had put fresh sheets on the bed herself with a smile--definitely Grissom's touch. "This is...really nice," she said.

Grissom, setting his suitcase neatly on the low dresser top, nodded. "My mother discovered it the summer before she passed away. We're lucky it's off-season; it's quite a popular venue."

Sara kicked off her shoes and dug her toes into the deep pile of the carpet, then walked over to look out the back window. The front of the little cottage and its wide picture window faced the ocean, but the back view was pretty as well, a wild pocket garden of gnarled trees and hardy plants. She smiled, feeling some deep knots begin to loosen after weeks of strain. "How soon will the others get here?"

Grissom stepped up behind her, slipping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. "They're due at about three o'clock, which gives us three hours."

Sara folded her arms over his, leaning back into his comfortable embrace. "I'm not sure what I want more, lunch or a nap." Their day had started early with a plane flight and a few last-minute errands, and she was still feeling the effects of a week of hard work closing down their jobs.

But she was feeling an unaccustomed freedom to go with the expected sense of loss. _I guess I didn't realize how draining work had gotten. Knowing that I don't have to go in on Monday is just...delicious. _

Grissom turned his head enough to kiss her ear lightly. "There should be some stuff in the kitchenette. Eat a little first and then lie down?"

Sara nodded and squeezed his arms, and he released her. He was right; the little kitchen area was stocked with fruit, cheese, rolls and crackers, and other snacks, as well as two bottles of high-end champagne chilling in the fridge, and Sara had some toast and fruit while Grissom made himself a cheese sandwich. But when she returned from brushing her teeth, he was tying his shoes.

"Is there something left to do?" she asked, surprised, but Grissom shook his head.

"I'm just going for a walk. I'll be back in ninety minutes or so--you can call me if you need me." He stood up and kissed her again, and Sara smiled and locked the front door after him.

_I'll bet he needs some alone time,_ she thought as she stretched out on the bed and tucked a pillow under her head. The sheets were crisp and smelled of fresh air, which made her suspect they had been line-dried. _It's been busy, it's going to be crowded--he needs the space._

It didn't bother her. One of the first things they'd worked out when they had begun living together was the fact that they both needed to be solitary from time to time, which was why Sara had her little den and Grissom a workshop. Private space was important to both of them.

Sara blinked drowsily, watching the breeze stirring the trees outside the window. She started to go over the wedding checklist in her head, but it quickly scattered and dissolved into sleep.

* * *

Voices woke her, passing the cottage--familiar voices. Nick and Warrick were arguing about something, laughing, and Sara stretched luxuriously as they faded out of range. _Hmm. In a couple of hours, I'll be a married woman._ It was still an odd thought.

She rolled over and looked at the clock, and sat up, a little alarmed--it was almost four o'clock. "Gil?"

"In here." Grissom appeared in the doorway of the bedroom, looking pleased. "Good, I was about to come in and poke you."

Standing, Sara stretched again, feeling muscles and joints popping. "Is everyone here?"

"Right on time." Grissom disappeared, and Sara followed, to find him moving his toiletries kit into his smaller bag.

"What are you doing?" she asked, puzzled.

He grinned. "It seems that the traditionalists are having the last word." As he spoke, a knock sounded on the front door, and Grissom raised his voice. "Come in!"

The door opened, and Brass stuck his head in. "Good. Ready? Hello, Sara."

She waved at him, still baffled. Grissom zipped his case shut. "I've been ordered out so that the bride can prepare."

Brass nodded. "We'll keep him at my place until the ceremony--bad luck to see you beforehand, you know." He winked.

Grissom cocked a brow. "Is that okay?" he asked, his expression telling her that he would stay if she wanted.

Sara had long considered such traditions silly at best, but Brass was grinning and Grissom's eyes were twinkling, and she was going to be spending most of the next couple of hours getting clean and dressed anyway. "Okay, sure."

"See you soon, then." Grissom leaned in and kissed her once more, and smiled. "I can hardly wait."

She couldn't stop her return smile, not that she wanted to. Brass saved her the trouble of answering by grabbing Grissom's arm and hustling him out. "Come on, we don't have all day!" His smirk was definitely cheeky. Grissom waved, barely managing to snatch up his bag, and then they were gone.

Bemused and snickering, Sara went to take a nice long shower.

She was halfway through drying her hair when someone started knocking on the door again. Setting down the hair dryer and pulling her robe a little tighter, Sara went to open it, half-expecting that Grissom had escaped, but instead found Catherine, Ronnie, and Dr. Nat on her doorstep, all three dressed up and--judging from the laughter--already into the complimentary champagne. Catherine pushed in past her, and Sara perforce stepped back as the others followed. "Uh, did I miss a memo?"

Natalie shrugged. "We're here to help you get ready, since you don't have any relatives on tap."

That wasn't quite true--Sara's mother had a cottage to herself--but Sara didn't expect to actually see her until the ceremony. "Um, I don't need any help."

Catherine turned from her survey of the cottage and gave Sara a challenging, but not angry, stare. "So?"

"We can go if you want," Ronnie put in nervously, obviously a little out of her depth with the two older women, but she lifted her chin when Catherine glared at her, and glared right back.

Sara thought rapidly. She _didn't _need help, and had been expecting some quiet time of her own, but banishing them would hurt their feelings, and...and...

_It sounds like fun,_ she realized, surprised at herself. "Well, when you put it like that..."

All three women grinned, and Sara found herself grinning back. "Great!" Catherine clapped her hands together. "Let's get started, girls."

In short order Sara found herself seated in the desk chair, a glass of champagne in her hand, with Natalie wielding a hairbrush and the dryer. The results were good, Sara had to admit when the coroner was done; Natalie had made the most of Sara's neglect in getting a haircut, and her curls were neither out of control nor too tame. Barrettes held the hair back from her face, which Natalie pointed out would be a necessity in the shore breeze.

The next step was a manicure, and again Sara submitted, this time to Ronnie's skills. Normally she wouldn't bother at all, but it was easier to agree--and she did harbor a secret desire to look her best, to please Gil. _After all, we only get one of these. And it's important to him._

It was also nice, if foreign, to be the center of so much positive attention. Sara figured that much more than an hour or two would drive her straight up the wall, but for the moment it was still fun.

She seized a relatively quiet moment when her nails were drying and Nat and Ronnie were getting more champagne to look up at Catherine. "Are you still pissed?"

Catherine pursed her lips, resting one hand on her hip. Her outfit of matching skirt and jacket in a pale green was very pretty; she had eschewed her usual low-cut blouse and looked quite elegant. "No," she said at last. "I hate to give up a grudge. But Gil is so--happy."

She blinked twice, her gaze softening. "I've never seen him this happy, you know," she added.

Sara swallowed the lump Catherine's words brought. "Thanks." She glanced away. "I'll--try to keep him that way."

Awkwardly, Catherine patted her shoulder. "I know you will. That's why I'm not mad any more."

The moment shattered as the others came in with their drinks, and Sara was grateful for the interruption; but also for clearing the air. Catherine meant a lot to Grissom, and while Sara wasn't exactly fond of her, the two women had a history together. It was good to be on pleasant terms again.

"How much time do we have?" Nat asked briskly, topping up Sara's glass.

Ronnie glanced at her watch. "About forty minutes, I guess."

Nat glanced across at Catherine. "Makeup first, or dress?"

"Makeup," Catherine said firmly. "Where's your bag, Sara?"

Sara rose, leaving her glass behind. "I can do my own makeup," she answered, equally firmly.

Catherine shot her a grin. "Sure you can. But the bride's supposed to be pampered. Indulge me."

Suppressing an eye-roll, Sara found her makeup bag and let Catherine have her way. And for all the chatter that went on during application between the four women, the tease and snark and stories of wedding disasters, Sara had to admit at the end that Catherine had done a good job. She'd kept a light hand, merely enhancing Sara's features and pointing out cheerfully that it would look better in the inevitable photos.

"All right, let's see the dress," Natalie demanded as Catherine capped Sara's lipstick and zipped up the bag.

Sara smirked at her. "What dress? Since when do I wear dresses?"

The disbelief and then slow horror on the faces of both Catherine and Nat delighted Sara, but Ronnie clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes dancing. Amused that the younger woman knew her that well, Sara relented. "All right, all right. Give me a minute."

She headed for the bedroom. "Don't you need any help?" Catherine called after her.

"Nope." Sara closed the door on her would-be assistants, knowing that they were now puzzling over a wedding dress that didn't require aid to don.

She zipped open the garment bag and pulled out its lone contents, laying it out on the bed to wait while she shrugged out of her robe and put on lingerie. Choosing a dress had cost Sara no little thought, her natural inclinations of practicality conflicting with a secret, feminine desire to dazzle her closet romantic of a bridegroom. But eventually she'd reached, or rather found, a compromise.

_I love the Internet_.

The result of her search was a slim dress in actual bridal white, with lacy half-sleeves and a multitude of tiny buttons down the equally lacy bodice. The skirt reached all the way to her ankles, and when Sara had eased it on over her head, the image in the mirror hung on the closet door surprised her.

She had tried it on once when it had arrived, of course, to make sure that it fit. But that hasty check, cut short by Grissom's arrival home from an errand, had given her only a glimpse. Now she saw herself tall and graceful, her cheeks flushed, her eyes lit with a strange anticipation, apprehensive and delighted at once.

Sara turned to look at the back, the filmy outer layer of the skirt floating just a bit, and found herself smiling. She slipped her feet into her chosen sandals and opened the door.

As she'd expected, all three of the others were watching. Eyes widened, and Catherine nodded slowly, punctuated by Nat's approving "Wow!" Ronnie just grinned.

"Yeah, okay, that'll do," Catherine said, impressed.

"Where did you _find_ that?" Nat asked, stepping forward to tweak Sara's right sleeve.

"Online," Sara replied, amused and gratified both by their reactions.

"Send me the site?" Ronnie asked, admiring. "And turn around?"

Obligingly Sara rotated so they could see the back of the dress, then raised her brows. "Are we ready?"

"More to the point, are the men ready?" Nat said dryly.

Ronnie snickered. "I'll check."

Catherine walked slowly around Sara. "Very nice," she approved. "But aren't you going to wear a necklace or something?"

Sara shook her head. "I don't have anything that goes with it." She lifted her left hand, where her engagement ring was a now-familiar weight. "This is all I need."

Catherine shrugged amiably, and fished a compact out of her handbag. Nat winked at Sara and asked her about the Website where she'd found the dress.

Ronnie returned just as Catherine finished touching up her own makeup. "They're all waiting, and Dr. Grissom's doing that thing with his hand."

Fingers rubbing against his palm--that often betokened deep concentration, but in this case Sara suspected impatience. "Let's go then," she said, a matching edgy joy swelling from somewhere deep inside her.

At six o'clock, the sun was just above the sea's horizon, dramatic and gorgeous and as blatantly romantic as any heart could wish. Grissom and Brass were standing with Rev. Tatter near the edge of the low bluff. The rest of their guests formed a small, well-dressed crowd around them--Nick and Warrick and Greg, a gaggle of techs, Doc Robbins with his wife and David with _his_ wife; Vartann with his girlfriend, Dr. Reyes, two men Sara didn't recognize but that she presumed were with Nat and Ronnie; and Sara's mother, standing a little apart but smiling.

She took them all in with a CSI's practiced, automatic glance, but it was Grissom she focused on, his body very still and his eyes lambent as they fixed on her.

Her escort merged into the murmuring group. Grissom's hands slipped into her own reaching ones, warm and solid and absolutely right, and they turned to face the minister.

Nothing elaborate or stilted. Just a reminder of the meaning and weight of a marriage, an acknowledgment of intention, an exchange of solemn, heartfelt promises. Brass handed Grissom a ring; Warrick held one for Sara. Under the setting sun they declared their love, and she felt it take hold, firm and undeniable. _We belong to each other. Nothing will ever be the same. _

_Good. _

Then the minister was blessing them, and Grissom grinned at her, all alight. Sara kissed him hard, tasting love and the future on his lips, and heard their friends clapping and cheering. And at that moment, knew she was perfectly happy.

Only Catherine had the chutzpah to hug Grissom, but Nick and Warrick and Greg were not so shy with Sara, and even Ronnie dared. Dizzy with joy, her heart so light she felt immune to gravity, Sara returned the embraces. It was _good_ to have friends to share the moment.

Laura Sidle did not either hug her or kiss her cheek, but she did take Sara's hand for a moment, her worn face creased but softened with pleasure. "I'm glad you're happy," she murmured, and Sara smiled back. It was far too late for a parent-child relationship, but they had begun to forge one between two adults.

Then Grissom's arm was sliding around Sara's waist. "Party time," he said cheerfully, nodding to Mrs. Sidle. "Shall we?"

Sara grinned at her mother, and helped Grissom urge their guests towards the large gazebo that overlooked the bluff a few yards away. The inn's staff had set up an al fresco supper, and all that remained was to remove the covers and pick up the plates. Soon everyone was eating and chattering, with Brass volunteering to tend the bar and Nick and Greg showing off the photos they'd taken of the ceremony.

"E-mail me the copies," Grissom ordered, looking over Nick's shoulder. "Those are good."

"Yeah, Gil, why didn't you have a professional photographer?" Catherine asked, nibbling on a canapé.

Grissom chuckled. "We did. Two of them." He jerked his head at his former CSIs, making them smile a little sheepishly.

Sara snickered as Catherine rolled her eyes, and moved on, snagging a plate for herself and filling it up with goodies. Making the decision to leave the lab had had a profound effect on her appetite, much to Grissom's delight and her own mild dismay. But this was a celebration, and Sara intended to enjoy it to the fullest. _It's not like we're planning on doing this again, after all._

Grissom had the right of it, she thought as the evening deepened into a breezy, delicious night. Informal was the way to go, and everyone was getting along just fine, laughing and chatting and trading stories. The men looked very handsome in their various versions of semi-formal wear, and the women had made full use of an excuse to dress up. Sara mingled, gathering introductions to Ronnie's boyfriend and Dr. Nat's cherubic blond husband, who beamed charmingly at her and reeked of sunscreen.

It was odd, some part of her was thinking; she didn't usually like parties, wedding or otherwise, but this didn't feel like one. Maybe because she and Gil were the focus; maybe just because everyone there was a friend. Sure, work had brought most of them together, but they had invited people that they wanted to see--even Hodges, making some sort of pompous speech at Grissom, who for once looked more amused than annoyed.

Nevertheless, Sara went over to rescue her bridegroom, stopping by the now-abandoned bar to pick up a flute of champagne. Brass was off talking to Nat's husband, who was a retired cop--they were probably talking shop, Sara thought as she handed Grissom the glass. He smiled at her, reaching down to link his fingers with hers, and Hodges trailed off, his expression going soft and almost sweet as he looked at them. Full of goodwill--in no small part because she wouldn't have to work with the tech again--Sara winked at him. "I need to borrow Gil, sorry."

Hodges blushed. "Of--of course. Sara, I just want to say, I'm very happy for you." He held out a hand. "For both of you."

Sara returned the handshake, and on impulse, leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Thanks, David. I'm glad you could make it."

His face went from pink to scarlet, and he seemed to lose the ability to speak altogether. Grissom chuckled again and steered her gently away. "He'll be boasting about that for months, you know."

Sara shrugged. "I won't have to listen, so I really don't care. Speaking of, you did invite Ecklie, didn't you?"

Grissom sighed. "He sent his regrets, politely worded. I left it at that."

Sara nodded and led him out of the gazebo to the edge of the bluff so they could look out over the water. Neither of them called Ecklie a friend, exactly, but he had been very decent throughout the Hannah West case and they had both felt it would be rude to leave him out. Sara was almost sorry he hadn't come.

There was no moon, but the stars were brilliant, and the water reflected their light in a faint sheen. It took a while for their eyes to adjust, but eventually the fairy beauty became visible spread out before them. Sara snuggled into Grissom's embrace, grateful for his body heat; the breeze was stronger as it came up from the ocean.

They stood for a while, content. The laughter and conversation from the gazebo was still audible, but not enough to make out words, and Sara felt as though they were separate from everyone else--in their own peaceful space. She almost wanted to hold the moment forever, except--

_There will be other moments. Some even better. _

Finally Grissom stirred, turning his head to breathe against her skin. "What do you say to letting them carry on without us?"

Sara nuzzled his throat and laid a kiss just below his ear, making his arm tighten. "I think that's a great idea."

"I'm glad you agree." Grissom took her hand once more, and they detoured around the gazebo. Sara giggled as they slid along, grateful that Grissom had good night vision.

"How long do you think it will take them to notice we're gone?"

Grissom snickered. "I imagine Jim has figured it out already. As for the rest of them, depends on how much they've had to drink."

Sara pulled him to a halt so she could kiss him, a deep slow kiss full of a far more sensual promise than their wedding kiss. "The longer the better," she whispered against his mouth.

Grissom's answering sound was a blend of amusement and frustration. He kissed her back, hard and fast. "I'm going to hold you to that very shortly."

"Come on, then." Sara slipped out of his grasp and headed for their cottage, Grissom catching up within three strides and tugging her to the left.

"This way." He grinned when she started to protest. "I had the staff switch us to the end of the row. Or do you want a charivari?"

Sara laughed. "Well, when you put it that way..."

Their new cottage was larger than the previous one, with a huge bed and a tub big enough for two. But Sara saw only her bridegroom, who locked the door behind them and turned to her, his eyes as brilliant as when they'd said their vows. "Sara..."

_My husband. _

_Wow._

Smiling, Sara went to him.

* * *

Catherine looked fairly relaxed for someone with a hangover, Sara thought the next morning as the older woman made her way into the breakfast room in the main building. But as soon as she spotted them, Catherine stopped dead and glared. _"There_ you are!"

Grissom, sipping from his coffee cup, raised a brow. "Where else should we be?"

Catherine snorted, and stalked over to them. "You know damn well what I'm talking about, Gil. Sneaking out of your own wedding party! Nobody could find you."

"And your point is?" Sara asked with a grin, getting the glare transferred to her.

But after a few seconds Catherine broke into a reluctant smile. "I'd have done the same thing if I'd been that smart when I got married. What's for breakfast?"

She wandered over towards the beverage table, and Sara exchanged an amused glance with Grissom. _Just how much champagne did she have? _

The rest of their guests eventually trailed in, looking sleepy or refreshed as was their habits, laughing and complaining. There were more than a few salacious comments about Sara's and Grissom's disappearance the night before, but Sara let them pass, buoyed by joy.

_And an endorphin high. Mmmm._ For someone who hadn't gotten much sleep, Grissom was looking just fine, Sara thought. She might have taken mild offense at his understated smugness, except that she felt far too smug herself to cast any stones.

It was late enough to be brunch, really, and they ate and talked and lingered for more than an hour before the guests had to go and pack. Ronnie, who claimed to have packed up as she got dressed, hung back.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, looking a little wistful.

Sara looked at her. A young woman, a good CSI with the promise of becoming an outstanding one--Greg had been right about her intelligence. "Sleep in for once."

Ronnie shook her head. "That's not what I meant."

_I know._ But where even Greg feared to tread, Ronnie knew no better--her experience of Grissom was limited.

The man in question reached over and took Sara's hand. "Our plans are open-ended," he said equably.

"I'm thinking of finishing my PhD," Sara added, not enumerating their various ideas--travel, teaching, moving to a different city. That last was almost a certainty, given their current notoriety.

"We can't go far until the West case finishes its trial phase," Grissom noted. "Sara will almost certainly be called as a witness."

_And what a tangled mess __**that**__ will be,_ Sara thought without pleasure. But it was in the future, and didn't deserve more than a passing thought before they got back to Vegas. Hannah, like Natalie, belonged in the past, and Sara was determined to leave her there.

Ronnie sighed. "I'll miss you."

Touched, Sara reached over to pat her arm. "I'll miss you too, Ron. But you know, you don't need a mentor any more."

The CSI blushed. "Really?"

"Really." The West case and all its difficulties had matured Ronnie, Sara thought; she had handled its complexities well, proving herself under intense pressure. "And you can tell Dr. Reyes I said so."

She'd rendered Ronnie speechless, Sara realized with amusement, and made a mental note to mention her opinion to Reyes before everyone left for the airport. _I suspect Greg's going to stay on Swing anyway, he likes being the senior CSI. Ronnie'll do fine._

When the last hugs and congratulations had been exchanged and the airport shuttle waved off, Sara and Grissom climbed down the rather steep and rocky path to the beach at the base of the cliff. It was a narrow space that all but vanished at high tide, but the sand was firm underfoot, and Sara felt almost as though they were miles away from any other human being. Between the ocean and the wall of craggy rock, there was nothing to show of civilization but their footprints--not even any trash.

She poked through a couple of tidepools, taking in the array of colors with delight, while Grissom wandered up to the cliff and began studying tiny moving dots on the rock that he said were mites.

After a while, Sara started feeling oddly restless, and she left her tidepool and walked down to where the waves were teasing the sand with low, creamy combers. She folded her arms and looked out at the glittering sea, feeling the constant breeze ruffling her hair and the sun warming her cooled skin. On impulse she bent down and pulled off her sandals, tossing them back towards the drier sand, and waded into the water. It was cold and swift and alive, and Sara braced her heels against the rush as the water ran back down the beach, sucking the sand from beneath her feet.

_I'm just not used to having nothing to do,_ she realized. Even on leave she'd had plenty to worry about, if not do, but now Hannah was no longer an immediate threat, and Sara wouldn't be returning to work on Monday.

It was more than that, even. She had worked as long as she could remember, starting with chores as a kid and progressing through petsitting, minimum-wage jobs, homework, and school. In fact, she had never really stopped working until her leave of absence the year before.

For a moment, a strange sense of panic bubbled up beneath her ribcage. _How can we possibly do this? Neither of us knows how to do anything but work--_

Then a strong arm slipped around her waist, and she looked up to find Grissom staring down at his own wide feet, planted in the surf next to her own. His pants legs were rolled up to just below his knees, and he looked silly and adorable and completely sexy all at once. "I was thinking maybe we could head down the coast tomorrow," he said affably, wriggling his toes as the wave drained away. "The weather's supposed to be terrific, and I promised to show you Mom's old gallery."

And just like that, her anxiety vanished, popped like a bubble. _We'll be fine. No matter what we do or where we go, we have each other, and...that's enough. _

Lifting a hand to Grissom's cheek, Sara kissed him, a long soft kiss that felt like home, because that was what he was. "Sounds good to me."

He laughed contentedly, and pulled her closer.


	19. Chapter 19

Epilogue

**  
Disclaimer: Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. All others belong to me, and if you want to borrow them, you have to ask me first. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**Spoilers: through "Bull"**

**Note: this story includes the non-graphic deaths of children.  
**

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_From: __rlake (at) lvcl (dot) nv (dot) gov_

_To: __investigator (at) litm (dot) com_

_Subject: _

_Hey, Sara! Thanks so much for the postcard, it's beautiful. I stuck it up in the breakroom. Bali sounds like a paradise but I'm pretty sure Customs won't let Dr. Grissom bring live specimens back. _

_I guess your lawyer will tell you the news, but I wanted you to get it as soon as possible. Hannah West was ruled insane, and has been remanded to a state mental facility. Vartann says that they probably won't let her out for years. _

_Take care and have a safe trip! _

_--Ronnie_

End.


End file.
